


Molly Weasley and the Ghost of Things Past

by Aurelia_21



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Family Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Ministry of Magic, Romantic Fluff, Slow Burn, The Burrow, the legal system
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2019-07-11 15:52:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 105,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15975548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurelia_21/pseuds/Aurelia_21
Summary: A year after Fred's death, Molly Weasley suddenly finds herself haunted by what she thinks is his ghost. She's also busy consoling Ron after his breakup with Hermione, who is suddenly getting very close with a certain co-worker...Dramione from a different perspective.





	1. The Noise Upstairs

**Author's Note:**

> This is a domestic story that shall revolve around Molly Weasley and the lives of all her children. Suggestions on people/places you would like to see are welcome! I have a general storyline plotted out, but there is room for more. 
> 
> I have a few chapters queued up already, and am actively writing this fic. There should be a new chapter every week or so!
> 
> Update: New chapter every Friday, 11 am GMT!
> 
> Update: COMPLETED! All chapters are posted.

It had been a year since Fred’s death. A long, wrenching year that had been simultaneously profanely quick. The battle was won, and after the constant hum of activity that had left her too busy to really grieve, the house was truly empty for the first time.

Molly Weasley sat in her kitchen, anxiously drumming her fingertips on a lukewarm cup of tea. All her children were busy, and with good things this time: Charlie had been promoted to head Dragon Ranger in Romania, and she was very proud of him, even if every night she lay away with her hair slowly turning gray as she prayed for his safety. 

Bill and Fleur were tucked away at Seaside Cottage with a baby on the way. Molly and Arthur spent most of their weekends visiting the couple, Molly trying to concentrate on parenting books while curled up in blankets by her husband’s side. Arthur would always be fiddling with some Muggle contraption, although his heart was not in it lately. 

Percy was speaking to them again, but he was still burying his embarrassed face in Ministry work. He also had a new girlfriend, Audrey: a mousy-haired, rectangular, strait-laced waif of a girl. Molly liked her well enough (as much as she tried, she couldn’t find anything really wrong with her), but Audrey was like a moderately attractive boulder: stable, and without much of a personality. 

Ron, of course, was busy wooing Hermione. Molly was excited to welcome the brilliant young witch into the family, although she couldn’t shake a nagging feeling that Ron was punching well above his weight. Molly and Hermione had never quite clicked, although she had always enjoyed seeing how well the young woman got along with her children. 

Ginny’s longtime crush on Harry Potter had at last been explosively returned. When Harry refused to see her during the war, citing Ginny’s safety, Molly had been subjected to a number of explosive rants (and Howlers, once Ginny got back to Hogwarts) about Harry underestimating her. Somehow Ginny had kept all that buttoned up in front of the rest of the world, and now Molly would have loved a Howler from her daughter, since Ginny was too busy cavorting in France with her (very serious) boyfriend and her new professional Quidditch team. 

Harry seemed to be doing all right, as well. Molly had always rather thought of him as a son, staying up late to carefully knit him sweaters each Christmas, but until the boy proposed to her daughter she felt contractually obligated to view him with suspicion. 

And then there was George. Ever since the twins had been born, the Burrow had never known a moment of silence. Even when they were away at school something poisonous and acidic would inevitably explode in their room at the worst possible time. Now, after the war, George had insisted on going back to his flat in London above Weezley’s Wizard Wheezes. Despite her very traditional views on marriage, Molly had to admit she was relieved when George’s girlfriend Angelina had moved in with him. She had hated the thought of him alone in the tiny flat, surrounded by memories of his brother. George would come home on the weekends sometimes and Molly would find herself hovering behind him to remember he was there. He was too quiet, although sometimes he would force himself to be boisterously loud: but mostly he slunk about the house, pale and depressed. 

All year at least one of them had been around, but now, she was quite alone. All those years pressing Arthur to take a promotion at the Ministry, and the moment she stopped caring he became the deputy head of Magical Law Enforcement. He was technically working two jobs––the former deputy head had been murdered by Death Eaters during the war––and working long hours. Now he was away, on a business trip of sorts, to Brussels. The old Molly would have been bursting with pride, and yes, she supposed there was some pride bursting somewhere within her. But Saturday had never seemed so long. 

Molly sighed, heavily, her sigh catching somewhere within her throat. She was going to cry, she knew it; there was nothing else with which to distract herself from the hole in her heart. She had already gotten fresh air—the two-mile walk and following de-gnoming session had really taken the mickey out of her. She had made herself a meal, but lost her appetite halfway through. The hearty stew was now simmering on the stove, halfway finished. Maybe she would eat it for dinner, but probably not; the queasiness in her stomach was such that she had gone ahead and cast a freezing charm on it. It would remain in its own looped stasis bubble, preserved fresh until such time as she regained her appetite. Even with Arthur’s promotion they still could not afford to waste a good stew. 

The tea was supposed to calm her, make her feel better, but now she was wringing her hands over it as the first great sob tore from her. She had thought maybe she could push her grief aside, avoid facing it for a while, but with every moment she was alone she found that it was still there. It had grown stronger, even.

She began to weep, tears burning hot trails down her face. Dark images flashed before her eyes: the battle, Fred’s body, frozen in a laugh; the funeral….she was going to get such a headache later from all this crying. At least she had remembered to keep some Anti-Migraine potion on hand. Or had she? 

She peered through her fingers, momentarily distracted by wondering if she had remembered to brew more potion last week. 

CRASH! 

The noise made her jump clear out of her chair. She looked down: her wand was in her hand already, a reflex gained from the recent war. Molly shuddered, and roughly scrubbed the tears from her face with her wand-free hand. The ghoul in the attack must have knocked something over. 

BANG! 

Her heart was racing now. It was the ghoul, it was the ghoul...but she knew the difference. The ghoul was high enough in the attic that his rumblings were but a faint thud. And at any rate, he mostly occupied himself drifting around and moaning. He rarely summoned the strength to knock anything over. No, this was much, much closer. In fact, if she didn’t know any better, she would say it was… 

She heard a child giggling. 

Her face blanched white and her blood froze.


	2. The Baby Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens!

It had been years since she had heard that sound. There hadn’t been a child around here in so long… 

She heard it again. A tiny, childish giggle, accompanied now by the pitter-patter of uneven steps. Another crash. The child was crying now. 

There hadn’t been a child in the burrow for years, and there wouldn’t be, not until May when Fleur had her baby. The sound left her frightened, but at the noise of tears the maternal side of her sprang into action. She couldn’t leave a child alone and upset, no matter what was upstairs. 

Molly gripped her wand so tight the blood fled from her fingers and walked over to the rickety staircase. 

“I am Molly Weasley,” she whispered under her breath. “I have given life and I have taken it. I am a powerful witch. I can handle whatever is up these stairs…” 

But when she got to the stairs, her knees locked and her heart was racing again. 

The child was sobbing now. And it was, unmistakably, behind the twin’s door. 

Molly had not been in this room for months. At first she had cleaned it: made the beds, left it the way Fred had. George had stopped her from tidying any further, but he had refused to touch it himself. She had wanted to keep it a shrine, somewhere she could go and remember her son, but Molly had discovered quickly and to her chagrin that she was not a shrine sort of person. She was a distract-yourself-and-forget sort of person. 

She turned the handle and pushed open the door. 

For a long moment, she thought the door might not open. It had always had that little stickiness in the corner—she gave it a good, sharp kick with one foot. It burst open. 

She could not see anything for a moment for the blinding light. She had left the curtains open, and the mid afternoon sun was spilling in over the fading bedspreads, the books with their pages fluttering in the breeze, and the mysterious pile of dingy boxes George wouldn’t let her touch. 

“MAMA!” A tiny gray shape suddenly raced at her, throwing itself around her leg. 

Molly screamed at the top of her lungs. This caused the little apparition to burst into tears and cling even harder. Its arms kept going through her leg, caused it immense frustration. The tears were flooding down its little face. 

Molly caught her breath and let it out, slowly, willing herself to calm down. She bent down to the floor, to the height of the little gray being, and took a good long look. 

It appeared to be the ghost of a toddler, maybe two or three, and even though it was gray and transparent she knew from the way the hair stuck up at odd angles and from the little baby freckles already peeking out that it was one of her own. 

The baby raised his face to hers, and their eyes met. She gasped and tumbled backwards onto her bum. 

“Fred?” 

The baby reached out his arms. “MAMA!” 

Her arms shaking, she reached out around the baby. Her arms met a cold vapor; she was going to go right through him. 

“Mummy can’t hold you, my sweet,” she said in a ragged, disbelieving whisper. “But Mummy loves you very much.” 

Baby Fred shuddered with rage, and suddenly he seemed to grow more solid in her grasp. He took on an orange tint. He launched himself at her chest. 

She caught him, and fell backwards, rolling to the floor in a hug. He was a tiny, wispy thing, yet solid enough now to touch. He weighed two or three pounds where he should have weighed thirty: it was like holding an empty suitcase. 

She was crying, but his tears were changing to laugher. He wriggled his tiny body out of her grasp and sat on top of her. 

“Mama no cry,” he said sternly. “Mama play!” 

“Play?” It took Molly a moment. She still had her hands around his tiny, insubstantial waist, and she was half in shock and half desperately willing that whatever dream this was, it never ended. “Fred…” she whispered. “I’m so sorry. I never should have...I should have protected you.” 

Baby Fred frowned, and put two chubby little hands on her mouth, pushing it up into a smile. 

“Mama PLAY!” 

“All—all right.” Whatever this was, she might as well go with it. Molly pushed herself to her knees, then took a tiny waif-like hand in hers. “I believe your toys are in the attic, dear.” 

“Wiff ghosty! BOO!” Fred cackled. 

Molly led him up the rickety stairs. The steps came up to his knees, so the poor thing was having a terrible time crawling from one to the other. She picked him up, reveling in the feeling of his baby body, and brushed through his hair. It was light—ghostly—but it was there. She combed through it gently with her fingers. 

“Oh, Fred, dear,” she cooed, as she climbed up the stairs. “Whatever happened? You were nineteen, my darling.” 

The baby only laughed and tugged on her hair. 

“No! No pulling Mummy’s hair.” 

He snorted and put a fistful on his mouth. 

“No eating Mummy’s hair! You’ll choke—” but then she looked again at the light orange head of her child. She could just barely see the far wall through his forehead. Choking could not hurt this child. “Never mind, my dear. Chew on Mummy’s hair all you want.” She patted his back. Fred had always been a difficult child—both the twins had. It was good to have him back. 

They reached the entrance to the attic, which was right next to Ron’s room. Molly paused for a moment, wondering what her youngest son would think of this ghostly iteration of his mischievous older brother. 

Fred whacked her shoulder lightly with his tiny fists. 

“Toys! Play!” 

Molly pointed her wand at the ceiling. 

“Alohomora.” The trapdoor opened, sending down cascading dust along with a flight of stairs. It was dark up here. “Lumos—”Molly lit her wand tip. Then, with Fred carefully tucked under one arm, she climbed up the ladder. She set him down on the floor and raised her wand to get a better grip on her surroundings. 

The attic was full of boxes and old trunks. A single shuttered window high in the ceiling provided a few rays of light; it would have given more had most of the slats not been snapped in two.

Molly frowned. Everything was always broken in this house. The shabbiness was by necessity, but the brokenness? That was just because she and Arthur had never found the time to go about repairs, between work and raising six children. The twins in particular; following them around to repair everything they broke would have been a full time job in and of itself. Well, now that she and Arthur had an empty nest, apart from baby ghost Fred, she would have time for that sort of thing. Molly squared her shoulders and aimed her wand at the shutters. 

“Reparo!” The wooden slats jumped to attention, stitching themselves seamlessly back into place. Molly smiled satisfactorily, feeling accomplished. She still had it. Then she frowned, wondering if baby Fred was going to break everything again. 

Fred had been looking up and watching her, wonder on his face. “Me! Me! Me!” He shouted, jumping for her wand. She dangled it out of reach. 

“No no, my child! No magic until you’re older.” 

Fred’s face began to fall, but just then there was a low moaning from the corner and the Weasley’s ghoul rose out from behind some boxes. He was of uncertain origin; Arthur had speculated that he had been a prisoner on this plot of land long before they built the house. At any rate the grayish thing was covered in chains, which he loved to shake dramatically. 

“EAUUURGGGGHHHH!!!!” He moaned, jangling his chains. 

Fred clapped his hands in delight. “Ghosty, ghosty!” 

The ghoul looked displeased. The gears in the brain he had once had seemed to be grinding very slowly, telling him he was not frightening to this child. He leaned back on his haunches and let out a loud, terrifying roar that had Molly’s hair standing up on the back of her neck.

Fred laughed even louder. “Ghosty, ghosty, ghosty!!” 

The ghoul descended into a coughing fit. Then, seeming to decide there might be meaning in a life making people laugh as well as scaring them, he leaned down and tickled the baby under his chin as he intoned, “GHOOOOOOSTYYYYYY.” 

Molly laughed out loud, and with that she felt an immense emotional release. She smiled happily down at her baby son. 

“Come, Fred,” she said happily. “Let’s find you your toys.” 

She led him through the maze of boxes to an old red trunk, and pushed it open. Inside were wooden building blocks that changed color, dolls that walked a little ways, and a dollhouse her father had built with stairs that changed position of their own accord, just like the ones at Hogwarts. This chest and the one next to it held the magical toys of Weasley childhood. She was going to dig them out for Bill’s baby, of course, but first—well, they were Fred’s anyway. 

Fred dove into the box with a screech of delight and surfaced, holding a huge white bear. He squeezed it. “TOYS!”

Molly laughed and sank down on a nearby chest, just watching him. She well remembered the days when Fred was this age—always scheming with his twin, running around and getting into trouble. She had had her hands full then; Bill, Charlie and Percy needed looking after, and Ron was already on the way at that point. This felt good, like a chance to step back in time and really relish one of those long-gone moments. 

For one wild moment, she wanted to race downstairs to the Floo Network and pop in and tell everyone the good news. But then—how would they take it? Ginny had always disliked the idea of ghosts. “It’s sad that they can’t seem to move on, isn’t it, Mum,” she had said. George might not know how to handle a twin whom he could no longer confide in. And what would Arthur say? That would be the next hurdle to cross: Arthur.


	3. Arthur's Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Arthur Weasley returns from his business trip.

Two days later, and Arthur Weasley was apparating back into the lobby of the Ministry of Magic. He brushed some dust off his traveling coat and hefted his shabby suitcase proudly, looking up at the new statue. It was still under construction. A team of artists were chipping away busily from the scaffolding, but pictures all around the atrium showed what it would look like when completed. It was to show witches and wizards, some attired in muggle clothing, others in robes, holding hands in a circle with goblins, centaurs, and house elves. The theme was unity and equality, and as always Arthur felt a little burst of pride upon seeing it. They had fought so long and hard, and now maybe, just maybe, things were changing. Even in the Ministry of Magic.

Arthur shouldered his battered leather bag and got into the elevator for his office.

“Hey, Dad!” 

He was suddenly engulfed in a hug by a gangly, red-haired Ron Weasley. 

“Got my new Auror robes! Really coming up in the world, eh? I’m on my way to show Hermione––she’ll be so proud.” Ron grinned down at him. 

“You’re being serious? Well done, Ronald!” Arthur clapped him on the back. 

Ron stepped out of the elevator, grinning and waving to his father. On the next floor, Arthur disembarked and ran into Hermione. The young witch, dressed in sleek, fashionable black and gold robes, was overseeing a small team of magijanitors who were hanging portraits. 

“Mr. Weasley!” She flashed him a toothy grin. “How was your trip?” 

“Harrowing,” said Mr. Weasley, only half-jokingly. “I worried the whole time about what our population of magical idiots would do without my team’s help and obliviation skills.” 

“I’m sure Rosemary had it under control. Nothing eye-popping came through my desk, at the very least,” said Hermione, a touch of worry in her dark brown eyes. 

Hermione was working as a paralegal for the Office of Magical Law Enforcement, and was used to dealing with the legal penalties incurred by the kind of dunderheads who got a visit from Arthur’s Office for the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts. 

“I’ll see once I’m back to my desk,” said Arthur jovially. 

Rosemary, whom he had left in charge, was a young witch who was generally more likely to break the statutes herself than to enforce them. She was currently pursuing a muggle PhD in International Shipping, a subject entirely foreign to her as a witch. Arthur followed her research with interest. 

“Are you and Ron still coming for dinner tonight?” He asked Hermione. 

“Oh, yes, we wouldn’t miss it for the world!” 

A smile broke across Arthur’s face. He reminded himself to have a serious talk with Ron about recognizing a good woman when he saw one. 

He gave Hermione a wave and continued down the hall to his office. He passed by his old superior’s empty desk, happy that his job of filling in for that position was over for the day, and looked with relief on the shabby yellow door that led to his closet of an office. It was good to be back. Arthur pushed open the door. 

There was a moment of silence when Rosemary’s panicked blue eyes met his, then suddenly he too was being attacked by a flock of flying bread ties. 

“I’m so sorry––” Rosemary was swatting them away from her face with one hand, while with the other, she blindly attempted to spell them away. 

Arthur swiftly stepped in and shut the door. “Don’t let them get out!” He struggled to aim at the flying menaces and succeeded only in blasting a hole in the wall. His colleague Rothesby’s shocked face was suddenly visible. 

“Damn you, Arthur!” the man sputtered. 

“So sorry–– _Reparo!”_

The wall healed itself, but Arthur could hear the man shooing away a couple of stray bread ties that had gotten through. Poor Rothesby––this was hardly the first flying muggle object to have come through his wall. 

Arthur rolled up his sleeves, wincing as several of the bread ties zoomed at him, nipping his bare arms. 

_“Glacies!” _He bellowed, waving his wand in an expansive swooping motion. At once a stream of ice erupted from the tip, freezing the bread ties in the air. Rosemary peeked out from where she had taken refuge under the desk, mouth open in awe.__

____

____

“Brilliant!” She breathed, pushing her matted hair out of her face. “Brilliant, I say! Why didn’t I think of that?” 

Arthur conjured up a brown sack and swept all the frozen bread ties inside, then tied the lot with a bit of twine. He tossed the bag aside. The freezing charm would wear off eventually, but he could take care of that later; for now the menace was contained. 

“Rosemary, what happened?” 

The panicked expression returned to the witch’s eyes. “I-I don’t know, it was a cursed object that came from, a, a, magical, household with a lot of, er, bread––” 

“Do tell the truth, if you don’t mind. It will save us so much time.” 

Rosemary cast her eyes down in shame. “Well, Mr. Weasley, sir, I was at the University this morning for a staff meeting around my research, and we took a break in the kitchen. I noticed that the muggles had been using these small plastic diddlywhatsits to keep their bread fresh, only I thought I might be able to improve them if I could charm them so that I didn’t have to fasten them around the bread myself…” 

“Ah, I see,” said Mr. Weasley, his expression softening in spite of himself. “Using magic to improve on muggles’ brilliance. Really, I quite understand.” 

Rosemary grinned shyly, knowing now that she wasn’t going to be in trouble. The key to managing Arthur Weasley as a boss was to always get him going on tangents, which was something she was very good at. 

“In fact,” Mr. Weasley was continuing, “I quite like the idea. It could simplify the need for anti-freshness charms, maybe cut down on the need for personnel to apply them in Wizarding bakeries.” The Wizarding World had been experiencing a bit of an employee shortage since the recent War, and the quality of fresh bread had been suffering as a result. 

He stared off into space for a moment, pondering the possibilities, then his gaze snapped back to Rosemary. “Anything else happen while I was away?” 

“Oh, no, no,” said Rosemary. “I mean, a package of your sons’ joke illness candies did wind up in a muggle vending machine in Brighton, and I did have to obliviate an entire elementary school, and I do think one boy may have gotten away with his memory intact, and the muggle police did get involved, and I may have lost the paperwork—”

Arthur chuckled to himself. “Good to be back! I see we have some work ahead of us—but it can wait. Take the evening off early, Rosemary; get some rest. It seems we have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.” 

Arthur began unpacking his briefcase of all the materials that needed to stay in the office, then snapped it shut. It was time to go him and see his wonderful wife.


	4. The Dinner Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron and Hermione come for dinner.

Arthur opened the battered door of the Burrow to be immediately engulfed in a tight hug by his wife. Molly was clutching him unusually tightly, and he thought he heard a whimper. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her hair. 

Molly pulled away from him after a few seconds. “I’m sorry, I’m just being silly,” she said, wiping her eyes with a dishcloth. 

“What’s the matter?” Arthur asked, feeling a bit clueless. 

“Nothing, nothing.” She couldn’t seem to look him in the eye. 

He gently pushed her wrists down from her face, then put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “There’s something, isn’t there, Molly?” 

“I...well...it was just my first day alone, since––” she couldn’t bring herself to say Fred’s name, but Arthur knew what she meant. She looked up again, her eyes flooded with tears. “I missed you, is all.” 

Arthur held her again until the tears began to subside. 

* * *

Later that night Ron and Hermione arrived by floo for dinner. 

“RON!!” Molly raced at him and engulfed him in an ashy hug. Her head came barely to his chest. He bent down as she reached up to pinch his cheeks, but pulled away swiftly. 

“Ow, Mum!” 

“Not feeding yourself enough, hah! I knew you wouldn’t. Am I going to have to start sending meals over there?” Secretly, she rather welcomed the prospect: she would put lovely notes with them, of course. It was maddening having to cut all her old recipes into tiny fractions now that she was only cooking for two. 

“No, Mum, I can cook….” 

Molly’s attention was on Hermione, now. The young witch had just cast a spell to clean her robes, which were brand-new and expensive-looking. It was probably where her first paycheck had gone. 

“Hermione, dear!” She hugged Hermione, who hugged her back with an enthusiasm that always surprised Molly. She tended to perceive of Hermione as a bit reticent: cold, almost. 

“Mrs. Weasley! Thank you so much for having us over for dinner; I’m sorry we couldn’t make it last week. It was such a busy first week of work at the ministry, and I had my new flat to sort out—”

“Don’t say a word, dear.” Molly put a finger to her lips. “You’re welcome here anytime.” She clapped her hands together. “Dinner?” 

Everyone nodded enthusiastically, but were suddenly distracted when a loud crash sounded from upstairs. Molly’s face fell immediately. 

“Arthur, won’t you open that new banana wine? I’ll just be a moment—”

“Are you sure?” He looked concerned. The crash had sounded like one of Fred and George’s old prank toys had gone off in their room, and he knew how she felt about that place. He was a bit of a shrine person, himself; he knew she wished she could be too. “I’ll just go take a look—”

“No!” It came out with unusual fervor. 

Arthur paused a moment, then decided not to push her. “Right, I’ll get the wine going. Ron, Hermione?” 

The three left the room and went into the kitchen, leaving Molly alone in the living room. She realized she was tense and shivering. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and hurried up the stairs. She had left baby Fred in the room with instructions to be quiet, a quieting charm, and plenty of toys to occupy him. She opened the door to see that Fred had only pulled the lamp down off the nightstand. The lightbulb had shattered, but it hadn’t hurt him. 

“Shame on you!” She whispered. “Leave the furniture alone.” She cast a quick repairing charm on the lamp and returned it to its position. Fred watched her work with some interest, then suddenly leapt up and pulled it down again. It went right through his body. He looked shocked for a second, then burst out laughing. 

“Oh, no you don’t!” She saw where this was going. Unfortunately, so did he. He immediately pulled the dresser down on top of himself, popped up through it, and, shrieking with delight, made a beeline for the boxes in the corner. 

“Fred!!” Molly chided in an exasperated whisper.

“Everything all right?” Arthur’s voice floated up from downstairs. 

“Yes—it’s fine—don’t come up!” Molly pushed her frizzy bangs out of her face, exasperated. Fred used these two or so seconds to scramble up to the top of the boxes in the corner with unusual agility. 

“No no no don’t open that!!” Molly forgot to whisper, and clapped a hand over her mouth in horror. “You don’t know what could be in there!” 

Fred paused, having already yanked open one of the cardboard flaps, and sucked on it for a minute, apparently thinking. 

“That’s right…” Molly carefully tiptoed closer to him, trying not to startle him into making any sudden moves. “Let’s leave the boxes alone, shall we? How about a nice nap?” 

“NAP?!?!?” Baby Fred shrieked suddenly at the top of his lungs. “NO!” He spat out the cardboard and crawled backward on the boxes, turning a violent shade of puce. 

“Shh!! No nap is okay, you don’t have to take a nap—“ 

“No nap!” 

“That’s right, no nap! It’s okay, mummy just needs you to be quiet, is all—“ 

“Molly?” She could hear Arthur’s footsteps on the stairs now. 

She turned back to Fred—she had to hide him. 

“No nap—just come to Mummy, sweetheart, and let’s play some hide and seek! You remember hide and seek?” 

Fred pondered this, the gears in his head turning as he calmed down into a slightly more yellowish shade of orange. 

“Hide and seek? Come here—“ 

“Play?” 

“Yes, play. Come to Mummy.” 

Something suddenly clicked and Fred turned back to his original shade of orange. 

“Yes, that’s right! Come to Mummy.” 

“No come to Mummy.” 

“Come to Mummy, darling.” 

“No come to Mummy. Freddy FLY!” And with no further warning Fred suddenly launched himself off the pile of boxes, where he caught himself midair and zoomed up to the ceiling, shrieking with glee. 

Just then Arthur opened the door. 

Molly whirled around, alarmed. Fred had glued himself to the ceiling above her. 

Arthur took in the wreck of the room in a glance. 

“Do you need help?” He asked tentatively. Molly just nodded. 

“Okay.” He went over to the nightstand and pushed it up, then pointed his wand at the broken lamp, at the torn box, at the various toys strewn across the floor. 

Molly started at him breathlessly as he worked. Fred, who was still stuck to the ceiling, at one point gave a “WHEEE!!!” And let go, disappearing straight through the floor. 

Arthur looked up briefly at the noise, but said nothing, seeming not to see the tiny ghost. 

Molly let out the breath she had been holding. Maybe she was the only one who could see him? Her heart fell a little at the thought, but there was a sense of relief as well. If no one could see him, then there was no explaining to do, and no one who might try to make him go away and be at peace. That was the sort of thing Hermione was likely to do, so Molly was glad she wouldn’t have to argue with the young witch. Hermione could be very persuasive on these matters. 

Having cleaned up the room, Arthur looked up at Molly, who had made a half-hearted effort to tidy the bedspread. 

“Shall we go back downstairs?” 

She nodded. Arthur held out his hand and she took it, entwining her fingers tightly around his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not much Dramione yet, but I am setting the stage--didn't want to just whizz through the Ron/Hermione breakup since it's going to be so important to Molly Weasley :)


	5. The Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A big fight. What to do as parents?

Arthur and Molly rejoined the dinner party quietly. When they came back in the room, Ron abruptly yanked his arm away from Hermione, hitting his elbow on the table and causing the dishes to clatter. 

“Ow!” He yelped, rubbing his elbow. 

Molly smiled a bit—it was clear he and Hermione had used their absence to get affectionate, which was sweet. 

“Is everything all right?” Hermione asked, smoothing out her robes. 

“Yes, just a bit of a lingering charm up in the twins’ room,” said Arthur nonchalantly. 

Ron nodded. “That’ll be easy enough to take care of then, at least easier than the Squib rubbish collector case Rosemary bungled while you were away.” 

“Squib rubbish collector? Rosemary didn’t tell me about that one,” said Arthur, digging back into his stew. 

“Yeah, I just heard about it from Seamus at lunch today. Apparently there’s some squib in Leicester who’s been complaining to his sister about how much work rubbish collecting is, and she charmed his lorry to make it a magnet for all the rubbish in the area. ‘Course, that was a bit of a disaster, as bits of rubbish started flying out of people’s hands before they were finished with them. It was in the papers, even, at least until Rosemary went in with a team of Obliviators and replaced the story with one about an epidemic of toenail fungus.” 

“Really? That sounds like Rosemary handled it well,” said Arthur, slurping his soup. 

Ron shook his head. “She was the sister.” 

“Ah. I’ll need to have a talk with her.” 

Hermione laid down her spoon, looking pensive. “You know, I find it so interesting how both Muggles and Wizards have this fascination with labor-saving devices, and yet it’s the wizarding solutions that more often go wrong.” 

“They do?” Ron said through a mouthful of stew. 

“Well, I mean of course there are the large-scale muggle disasters like Chernobyl,” said Hermione. “But I think the more endemic issue is that muggle technology typically works based on the amount of energy that you expend in operating the device. The energy needs to be transformed by the device, not created, but most spells bypass the input and make the device start producing its own energy. I’m fairly certain it’s the creation of magical energy that makes the device go haywire.” 

“Is it now?” Arthur looked interested. 

“Well, it’s not MY idea, exactly,” said Hermione, looking a bit bashful. “Its Baggoty Bibshot’s, you know, the witch who lost her permit in Diagon Alley for selling muggle dishwashers?” 

“Oh, yes, I’ve dealt with Bibshot before. Absolute nut of a woman.”

“Well, I was helping take down her deposition for her counterlawsuit, and she told me some of her theories about magic. She’s a bit off her rocker, of course, but I really think she’s ahead of her time,” said Hermione earnestly. “I’m thinking of writing a paper on it to submit to Trials in Transfiguration.” 

“Another paper?” Ron looked up, aghast. “Haven’t you had enough of school yet, Hermione?” 

Hermione stuck her nose up gracefully. “For your information, Ronald, the original purpose of the term paper was to disseminate magical discoveries, not to torture students.” 

“Still,” Ron muttered under his breath. He had never quite understood how Hermione could go back for an eighth year at Hogwarts and not have had enough of homework to last her forever. 

“Has anything else interesting happened at work?” Molly butted in, wanting to head off an argument. She was too tired to listen to Ron and Hermione bicker tonight. 

“Yes, actually,” said Hermione, picking up her spoon and resuming her stew. “I’ve been assigned to the Malfoy case.” 

“The Malfoy case?” Ron spat out his mouthful. “You’d better tell me you’re about to help put away those nutters for good, Hermione.” 

“I’ve been assigned to the defense, actually,” said Hermione, sounding defensive herself. 

“Great, you can tank the case from the inside.” 

“That would hardly be ethical! Besides, while Lucius Malfoy certainly deserves Azkaban, I think condemning him to the Dementors’ Kiss is hardly appropriate.” 

“That bastard never had a soul to start with,” said Ron darkly. 

“It shouldn’t be a part of our justice system!” Hermione’s eyes were blazing now. “I don’t care what someone’s done, the Dementor’s Kiss is cruel and inhumane. You of all people should know that, Ron; you’ve spent enough time fighting them!” 

“He tortured you, Hermione!” Said Ron angrily. 

“That was Bellatrix, and she is dead,” said Hermione, her voice full of venom. “Thank you very much again, Mrs. Weasley,” She added, giving a genteel nod in her direction. 

“Indirectly!” Ron was ablaze. “He didn’t stop it, and that’s just as bad!” 

“Be that as it may—” Hermione paused, clenching the edge of the table, her knuckles white. When she spoke again she was calmer. “Lucius is guilty. But the fact that the Kiss is still on the books is a gross offense against justice. Yes, he needs to be locked up. But not even the Malfoys deserve to see a family member de-souled. I’m doing it for Draco, really.” 

Ron’s voice was much quieter now, but dangerously so. “I still can’t believe you became friends with him.” 

“Ron, there were just twelve of us who went back; we had to stick together. And Draco’s changed, really.” 

“Malfoy hasn’t changed, you’ll see,” said Ron darkly. “I should’ve gone back for that last year too, then you wouldn’t have gotten tricked by that ferret.” 

“Tricked?!” Hermione’s voice was shrill. “Tricked? I can think for myself, Ron!” 

“Oh, I’m sure you can! You’ll see, all he wants is an inside lawyer on his family’s case. You’re too clever, Hermione; you’re brilliant and he knows it. But you’re brilliant when it comes to books.” 

Arthur shot a warning look in Ron’s direction. “Pudding, anyone?” 

“What are you implying?” Hermione was glaring into Ron’s eyes, her voice almost a hiss. 

“You’re clever and brilliant and you really do know everything. Except how to read people. Malfoy’s manipulating you.” 

Hermione’s hair seemed to electrify with anger. 

“Accio pudding,” said Arthur hurriedly. He started spooning it onto plates. 

Hermione still hadn’t said anything, which Ron seemed to realize was worse than being yelled at. 

“I mean, you’re the most brilliant person I’ve ever met, you know?” He said quickly, trying to paper over his mistake. “And you said it yourself, you’re not good at reading people. You said that’s why you need me, remember?” 

Hermione seized Ron by the shoulders and whispered something in his ear, just loud enough for Molly to hear. 

“What if I just said that to make you feel better about yourself?” 

The crushing disillusionment in Ron’s eyes was terrible to witness. 

“I think you should go home now,” he said very quietly. 

“Pudding?” Said Arthur, half heartedly. 

“No, thank you.” Hermione shook her head and stood up in the same motion. She flashed a fake smile. “Thank you for the lovely dinner, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. Ron, I’ll see you at the flat.” 

Hermione turned and made a beeline for the fireplace, where she barked something that ended in “London!” She vanished in a malicious flash of green. 

She left a silent room. Ron began to eat his pudding, languidly, as if he didn’t know what else to do. 

“Ron—” Arthur started. Molly stared into the distance, lost. There were too many threads in the argument; she didn’t know which one to pull on. 

“Mind if I sleep here tonight?” Ron asked dully. 

“I thought you were living with Seamus?” Molly said without thinking, a flash of terror that Ron might have to deal with Hermione to access his sleeping quarters. 

“Yeah, him and that idiot French boy,” Ron grumbled. “We had to take on another roommate to make rent.” 

“Of course you can stay,” Molly assured him. “Ron…” 

Ron shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about it.” 

* * *

 

Later that evening Ron curled up on the couch in the living room with one of his old comic books with the moving pictures. Molly cornered Arthur in the kitchen. 

“That Hermione—” she started. 

Arthur cut her off with a calm shaking of his head. “She’ll apologize.” 

“But their relationship—the constant arguing; I mean, George and Angelina argue too, all the time. But with them it’s playful; they’re not trying to cut each other.” 

“She’ll apologize, you’ll see,” Arthur reiterated, like this was the end of the discussion. 

“But Ron ought to apologize too!” Molly dropped her voice to a theatrical whisper, just in case her son might be listening. “I’ll take his side any day or night, but the problem isn’t who’s to blame. The problem is that they know each other well enough to know exactly how to hurt each other, and neither of them hesitate to use that knowledge the second either of them gets upset!” 

Arthur turned to her with a heavy sigh. “I agree,” he said finally. “You’re right. But all I’m trying to say is that Ron loves her, and when she apologizes, which she will, he’s going to take her back and forgive her at once. It wouldn’t be wise of us to say anything about her in the meantime that could alienate him once they’re together again.” 

Molly sighed, her shoulders drooping. “I’m afraid you may be right.” 

Arthur took her hands in his. “What do I always say?” 

“Family first, right or wrong.” 

“That’s it.”

They embraced for a long minute. 

* * *

Arthur was proven right when, an hour or so later, Hermione’s new owl Aethelfritha came knocking at the window. Ron scurried to undo the clasp, and the tiny barn owl came hovering in, her wings going like a hummingbird’s as she tried to support the weight of a heavy parcel of chocolates. 

Ron untied the note from her leg, and his face lit up as he read it. Watching from beside the far, Molly shot her husband a dismayed look, which he returned. 

“It’s Hermione,” said Ron finally, his eyes dancing. “She said she’s sorry for everything and I’m right and I’m brilliant and she’d very much like to tell me so in person if I can stand the sight of her.” 

“Can you?” Arthur asked rhetorically. 

“Stand it?!” Ron exclaimed. “By golly, the last hour and a half without her has been the most miserable time of my life. Mum, Dad, I’ve got to go, thanks for everything—” and with that, chocolates in hand, Ron reached the fireplace in a few short steps and disappeared in a loud green blaze. 

Molly leaned into Arthur and flicked her wand to turn on the radio. Celestina Warbeck’s comforting warbles floated out. In the corner of the room she saw a little orange toddler crawl out of one wall and into the other, and she smiled, feeling fully relaxed for the first time that day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we start to gooo!!!


	6. Afternoon Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tea at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes

The next day was a Saturday, which typically meant cleaning, but that morning Arthur lifted Molly clear out of her wellies just as she was about to start hosing down the exterior of the Burrow. 

“The dirt can live,” he said by way of explanation, panting and clutching his side in recognition of her bulk. “Let’s go see George.” 

Molly happily obliged, insisting only that she first bake several dozen of his favorite biscuits in case he needed fattening up. 

By noon they were on their way, chugging down the road in an old yellow VW campervan. Mr. Weasley had long been on the hunt for an extremely cheap used car to replace their runaway Ford Anglia, and had finally found his answer in this battered, engineless former hippie haven. Snatching it from the very jaws of death, he spent months hammering out the exterior, repainting the sides, and even illegally haggling with a muggle mechanic to show him how to put in a new engine. 

Molly rather liked the garish yellow paint with its white racing stripes, and she especially liked the interior, which they had magically enhanced to fit an entire miniature home. It was going to be brilliant for camping with the grandchildren, when those arrived. In the meantime, she didn’t trust Arthur’s autopilot spells and insisted that they both sit up front and drive rather than lounging on the couch as he had suggested. 

Molly had left baby ghost Fred asleep, curled up in the linen cupboard right below the attic. He had spent most of the morning up there, knocking over old toys and boxes and playing with the ghoul to his little heart’s delight. The ghoul was probably as good a babysitter as a baby ghost could get, reflected Molly. Fred could make as much noise as he wanted, and something in her trusted the musty old wailing spectre. Still, it was awkward to be keeping something from Arthur. 

The radio was on, the summer sun ablaze, and the drive passed in more or less contented silence until soon they were navigating the narrow streets of London. Arthur pulled into a street parking space and wrestled with the meter––his favorite part. Then they hurried into the Leaky Cauldron and were soon in Diagon Alley. 

Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes was bustling. Molly raced inside. 

“George!” 

The tall, handsome wizard turned, his hair long to cover the hole where his ear used to be. His face broke into a smile and he engulfed his mother in a hug. 

“Jimothy, watch the shop!” he shouted over his shoulder. 

“Right-o!” George’s latest assistant, working summers between terms at Hogwarts, gave him a salute. 

“Come on up––” George led his parents through the back, behind a large portrait of him and his brother executing a particularly complex play during their Quidditch heyday, and up a dingy metal staircase to the flat above the shop. “Angelina stepped out for a moment to pick up more tea.” 

The flat was cozy yet tiny, and consisted of a miniscule combined living and kitchen room off of a bedroom made from what used to be a closet. Angelina had enlarged the sill of the window that hung over the street into a window seat, which was cushioned and topped with plump pillows in Gryffindor colors. In fact, the majority of their decoration was either Quidditch or joke-themed. The cuckoo clock, which featured an angry Turkish boxing glove instead of a bird, was a rescue from a dustbin. In place of wallpaper, they had stapled Gryffindor house flags to the walls. A huge glass chandelier had to be put in the corner due to how low it hung, and it rained perfume when needed to match the weather outside. The effect was jumbled and overwhelming, and Molly had a great many ideas on how to make it less cluttered that she kept to herself. 

“Take a seat!” George gestured grandly to a pair of bean bag chairs he and Fred had painted to look like bludgers. 

Molly gingerly sat down as the foam balls crinkled beneath her, unsure how she was going to get up again without help. 

“So––how’s the Burrow?” George pulled up a rickety stool and perched on it, staring down at his parents. 

“Good, good,” said Arthur, shifting to try and find a more comfortable position in the Bludger bean bag chair. “Your mum’s got all the gnomes on the run, as usual.” 

“It didn’t suffer too much in your absence?” 

“No, no. My trip went well. We had a training session for Belgian wizards on how Britain prevents the misuse of muggle artifacts, which of course we don’t do particularly successfully ourselves. The Q&A was murderous.” 

George nodded sagely, and shifted a little to try and obscure what was clearly a disassembled Muggle hamburger phone behind him. “Any news from ickle Ronnikins? I keep expecting him to drop by the shop, but apparently he’s too high and mighty now he’s completed his Auror training.” 

“Yes, and we are _so_ proud,” Molly interjected. “We’re proud of you too, of course, Georgie,” she added hurriedly. “But Ron has worked so hard, and he got his new robes just last week. Soon he’ll have his own case portfolio.” 

“What is it, Team for the Rewarding of Magical Heroism?” George tried to make a joke. 

“No, he’s working on war cleanup,” said Molly. “It’s the team he trained with, remember?” 

“Oh, yes, the one he got on so he could go help search out and lift all the lingering curses at Hogwarts and also see his girlfriend every couple of weeks. I remember. How is Hermione?” 

“Doing well,” said Arthur diplomatically. “She’s getting some high-profile work for a beginner. Did you hear she’s on the Malfoy case?” 

George’s eyebrows raised quizzically, but all he said was, “I saw that git last week, actually. Ran into him at Gringotts when we were both making withdrawals. Barely recognized him; he’s stopped using his hair gel.” 

“I thought he was under house arrest?” said Mrs. Weasley. 

George shook his head. “I thought the same thing, so I asked him.” 

“George!” 

He ignored the admonition. “Says it’s more of a ‘house precaution.’ Apparently only his mother is under arrest.” 

“Didn’t Hermione say something about McGonagall put in a good word for him?” said Arthur. 

“Yes, I do think you’re right,” said Molly, the memory slowly coming back to her. “After his preliminary hearing?” 

“Yes, something about he was under duress, he’s changed, and he switched sides just in time in the end.” 

“I still don’t think that should excuse him,” Molly muttered under her breath. Distant relation of Arthur’s or not, she had always thought it was shameful the way the smug blonde boy treated her children. 

“What’s this?” Angelina said just then in mock surprise, emerging through the beaded curtain that separated the kitchen/living room from the stairs. She set down her groceries on the tiny counter and ran to Arthur and Molly for a hug. 

“Angelina!” George spun her around and dipped her for a kiss. She pushed him off, laughing. 

“George, we have company!” She turned to the Weasleys. “Anyone for tea?” 

“Yes please,” said Mrs. Weasley, struggling to stand up from the bean bag chair. “If anyone can give me a hand, I’ve brought biscuits as well.” 

“I won’t hear of it,” said Angelina brusquely. “You sit back and just tell me where they are.” 

“In the tin,” Molly obliged. 

Angelina put the tea on, while George plated the biscuits. Soon everyone was chatting happily while they sipped tea and enjoyed the ginger snaps. 

“You’re crossing your eyes again, Mum,” George interrupted at one point. “Stop. It makes you look like a drunk hedgehog.” 

Arthur glared at him but chuckled. 

“Sorry,” said Molly swiftly, embarrassed. It was a terrible habit she’d picked up; sort of an attempt to see double. It was still so odd to see just one twin in front of her. She wondered for a moment what George would think of the baby ghost of his brother, who was probably at that moment zooming around the attic like an untied helium balloon. He would either be jealous of Fred’s newfound ability to fly and move through walls, or he would be terribly hurt and unaccepting. She feared the latter. 

* * *

At five the cuckoo clock shrieked open, cursing in Turkish as it madly punched the air. 

“Forgot to mention Percy’s having us for dinner,” said George suddenly. “Mum and Dad, would you care to join? Angelina and I need a defense against being lectured on cauldron sizes all night.” 

“Be nice! He’s your brother,” Molly snapped. “Of course we’ll come. Do you expect he’ll mind?” 

“Hardly. Percy’s always on the lookout for a larger audience.” 

* * *

A half hour later everyone was freshened up, ready, and piled out of the Leaky Cauldron to find a large metal clamp fastened around the front tire of the campervan. 

“Another one!” Arthur exclaimed in delight. He raced over, examining it from every angle. “It must have come with another paper, too!” He snatched up the parking ticket from the windshield. 

“Dad, it’s a fine, not a souvenir,” said Angelina, who had begun calling Mr. Weasley Dad. Mrs. Weasley was still Mrs. Weasley until there was a wedding. 

Arthur’s enthusiasm was undiminished. _“Alohomora!”_ He pointed his wand at the clamp, which popped open. _“Wingardium leviosa.”_ It was a bit heavy, so he levitated it into the boot, where it clanked into place alongside five others. “My, but this is a thrill. I wonder what it is I’ve done this time?” He ripped open the yellow packaging and his eyes got wide. “Apparently this small red sculpture is called a _fire hydrant!”_ He raced over to it and bent down, then jumped back. “Whatever it is, it smells of piss. I’ll have to ask Harry.” 

Arthur pulled out a tiny scroll and ink set from his pocket, and began jotting a note using the side of the car for support. He’d recently taken to writing weekly memos to Harry with questions about muggle society, questions Harry rarely got around to answering. 

Molly rolled her eyes fondly. “Let’s get in the car, dear.” They clambered in, and she took the parking ticket from Arthur to stow in the glove box. He was papering the garage with them at home. As far as Arthur’s obsession with the Muggle world went, this was relatively harmless, not at all like the time he had brought home a microwave and blown apart the kitchen after forgetting to poke holes in a potato. Molly had learned to pick her battles. 

“Well!” said Arthur blithely, hands on the wheel. “Where does Percy live again?” 

“We’re dining at Audrey’s, actually,” George answered. 

“Yes, we think she likes us a bit better than Percy does,” Angelina put in. “She lives in Surrey.” 

“Right-o,” said Mr. Weasley, and they were off.


	7. The Howler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What has Percy been up to, and who is Audrey Prufroot? Plus, some more news from Ron.

Audrey lived in a plain brownstone house in a suburb. Her dwelling was not unpleasant, but it was identical to the twenty others in the neighborhood. It was a grassy place, and there was a single row of prim tulips marching across the perfectly-trimmed front garden. 

“I thought she was from an ancient Wizarding family?” Molly muttered under her breath. “So why is she living in a Muggle house?” 

“The Prufroots are more middle class,” said George, who had overheard. 

“Audrey wanted her independence,” Angelina added. 

They all stopped at the door. Arthur rang. 

Only a few seconds passed before the door was opened by a bright young woman. Audrey was petite, with mousy hair, and was wearing a floral dress that looked like it was from the 1940s. Her face broke into a broad smile on seeing them, but her voice was faint and shy. 

“I’m so glad you could make it! Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, we weren’t expecting you, but I’m so very glad to see you. Come in, please! May I take your coats?” 

Audrey’s command of household magic was spectacular: a flick of her wand and a nonverbal spell later, all of their cloaks were neatly hung on hooks in the hall. 

“Percy will be most glad to see you!” She started down the hallway. “May I offer you drinks before dinner?” 

They acquiesced, and she effortlessly filled crystal glasses mid-air with the drinks of their choice. 

Footsteps sounded in the hall. “Audrey, have you seen my––” Percy walked in and pulled up short, hair perfectly coiffed and his clothing impeccable. He somehow still managed to look frumpy. 

“Mum! Dad,” he said, seeming confused about how to feel. “How good to see you.” He gave Molly an awkward hug, and Arthur a stiff handshake. Angelina got a warmer hug, while he seemed nervous to greet George. 

“Don’t be shy,” said George, an evil twinkle in his eye. 

Percy hugged him, and a jolt of electricity coursed through his body from something in George’s hand, causing Percy’s hair to stand on end. 

“George!! How dare you––why––” Percy sputtered. George and Angelina were falling over themselves with laughter, while Audrey had sprung into action, smoothing down Percy’s hair and looking deeply concerned. Arthur was barely restraining himself from laughing, so Molly stomped on his foot to help him out. 

“George,” Audrey looked down the end of her nose reproachfully. “Whatever was that for? Poor Percy had just finished applying his hair gel.” 

George lost it, gasping for breath, leaning heavily on Angelina for support. “Hair gel! Percy! It’s not still hair mayonnaise, is it? What, are you prepping for someone to taste your hair?” 

Percy turned to Audrey, frowning. “I told you we shouldn’t have invited them!” He said in a quiet, angry whisper. 

Audrey layed a soothing hand on her arm. “They’re your family, Percy. I’d like to get to know them.” At this, Molly felt herself warming to Audrey. 

“Well, come on in, then,” Percy said at last. He said it begrudgingly, but Audrey gave him a warm smile in thanks. “We only made enough food for four, but I’ll whip up some pasta to fill us up so we can spread it out.” 

“Won’t you come into the parlor?” Audrey said warmly. “And can I offer you another glass of wine?” She was clearly intent on playing the hostess while Percy stewed in the kitchen by himself. 

“Love a glass of the house beer,” George said, a twinkle in his eye. 

“George!” Angelina stomped on his foot, but she was smiling. 

“Of course!” said Audrey, not put out in the least. “I like to keep a little bit of everything on hand. Angelina, would you like a beer as well?” 

“Oh, yes please,” said Angelina. 

* * *

Not long after that they all sat down for dinner around Audrey’s table. Her china was delicate, white with light green borders, and her creamy white tablecloth was so smooth she must have ironed it somehow. She had the serving dishes floating in the air like a tiny constellation, peacefully moving from plate to plate and spooning out even portion sizes. 

“So, Percy,” said Arthur. “How is your work going at the Ministry?” 

“It’s going well,” said Percy. He was working in the Department of Magical Transportation. “We’re preparing another portkey licensing auction. Demand has exploded, and we’ve had a rise of people creating illegal portkeys since the war. There have been several cases now of people who were unwillingly transported after making contact with a seemingly ordinary object. Plus, we have a group of young folk who fancy themselves innovators who think we can use a lineup of special portkeys to replace the Hogwarts Express, thereby drawing less attention at King’s Cross. I’m against the proposal, of course.” 

“Why is that?” Arthur pressed. 

Percy looked affronted. “It’s new. The Hogwarts Express is an institution.” 

“I dunno, I would’ve loved a portkey system,” said Angelina thoughtfully. “I could’ve come home more often, spent more time with my baby sister. Course, now she’s all grown up and practically on her way to Hogwarts herself.” 

“It wouldn’t be operational during the year!” Percy sounded shocked. “That wasn’t even a part of the original proposal.” 

“Why not?” asked Angelina. “It’s not like you have to just replace the train. If you’re thinking of creating an alternative method to get to Hogwarts, why not rethink Hogwarts at the same time? Boarding school is difficult. We could use more family cohesion in the magical world right now.” 

“Rethink Hogwarts?” Percy looked somewhere between choking on his pasta and leaping across the table to shake her. 

He was interrupted by a thud at the window, and then the noise of something hitting a bush, followed by squawking. Everyone looked up, but for a moment, there was nothing to see out the window. Then, a tiny owl shot up and through the top of the window––which was open just a crack––and came careening into the living room, landing straight in the soup tureen. Soup went everywhere; Audrey shrieked; Pigwidgeon the pigmy owl (for that’s who it was) squawked in dismay and flapped his little wings hopelessly in the hot mush. Arthur reached in and plucked him out, saving him from drowning, and rinsed and dried him with a quick spell from his wand. 

Pigwidgeon ruffled his now-dry feathers and cooed sadly, brushing against Arthur’s hand for comfort. Molly reached over to pull off the note from his leg, but before she could unfasten it, the envelope rose into the air of its own accord. 

Arthur cringed. “Brace yourself––it’s a Howler!” 

Molly tensed up, and a list of who might be angry with her raced through her mind, but before she could alight on any one person she was shocked to hear Ron’s distraught voice emanating from the Howler. 

“HERMIONE BROKE UP WITH ME,” he was saying through sobs. “SHE SAYS IT’S FOR REAL THIS TIME. I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT.” He blew his nose here before continuing. “MUM, WHERE ARE YOU WHEN I NEED TO TALK TO YOU ABOUT IT? WHY DOESN’T SHE LOVE ME ANYMORE??” He took a break from speaking here to sob loudly before sniffling and continuing. “I ATE A POUND OF CHOCOLATE AND NOW I FEEL SICK. I’M AT THE BURROW, BUT I CAN’T FIND YOU. I FEEL ABANDONED, AND NOBODY LOVES ME. ALSO, YOU GOT A PACKAGE FROM THE MINISTRY.” The Howler, which typically would have exploded in a burst of flame, incinerated itself with a light puff and drifted slowly down to leave a pile of ashes on Audrey’s crisp white tablecloth. 

“Oh, dear dear dear,” Molly clucked. “He sounds distraught.” 

“Do you need to go to him?” Audrey’s eyes were wide. 

“Oh, I hardly think so,” said Molly, looking at Arthur for support. “He’ll be fine for a big longer. It’s not the first time they’ve broken up. Arthur, have you got a pocket quill?” 

Arthur scrambled through his pockets, but before he could find one Audrey had summoned a portable writing desk to the table. It was spotless and well-stocked, of course, and her levitation abilities were so perfect that none of the ink spilled on the way over. Molly thanked her and scribbled a quick reply to Ron–– “Sorry to hear. At Audrey’s with dad and George and Angelina. Will be home in a few hours. We love you” ––and attached it to Pigwidgeon’s leg. He looked at her, miffed. 

“No treat for the little darling?” Audrey piped up in a soft voice, reaching as she did so towards a side box on the writing desk. She pulled out a tiny owl treat and fed it to Pidgwidgeon. “Good job, young sir! Now, off you go!” She shooed him gently off the table, and he took off happily. Audrey spelled the window open and shut to aid in his departure. She turned back to the group and smiled softly. “Well, it looks like we’ve all enjoyed our pudding,” she said. “Anyone for a game of Cluedo? It’s a muggle game, came with the house, but Percy and I enjoy it.” 

Everyone murmured their assent and shuffled off to the living room. Arthur looked thoroughly delighted. 

About ten minutes later even Arthur’s excitement was dampened, as Percy and George were by now engaged in a loud fight over the directions. 

“What do you mean, I have to move the pieces myself?” George was saying. “All your brilliance, you’re always bragging about your education and your work and that paper that got rejected from Annals of Arithmancy and you still haven’t bothered with a simple pieces charm?” 

“We like moving them ourselves,” said Audrey, her voice scarcely loud enough to be heard. “It’s relaxing…” 

But George didn’t seem to have heard her, or else he just didn’t care. “Let me fix it for you––” he shook his robes off his hands and cleared his throat. 

“Stop it!” said Percy, agitated. “Your spells always go wrong. I don’t want you turning our board game into another one of your joke store products, or rigging our living room with booby traps, or, or––” 

“Look at that, is that Pigwidgeon back so soon?” Molly put in loudly. She was almost relieved to see the little owl bobbing back through the window, carrying another howler. “Boys, stop bickering and hear what it has to say!” She unfastened the howler, which struck her as damp and bedraggled even though it wasn’t raining outside. She could have sworn she heard it sniffle despondently before it burst open and Ron’s voice wailed, “MUM, WHERE ARE YOU?” The Howler collapsed in another ashy stain. Molly sighed wearily. Ron sounded truly upset. 

“We’d better go,” said Arthur. “It’s a long drive back. Audrey, Percy, thank you so much for your hospitality. It’s been wonderful seeing you.” 

“It was wonderful seeing you all too,” said Audrey anxiously, rising to give them all timid hugs. “I do hope you’ll come visit again.” 

Percy shook hands stiffly, but when he came to Molly she gave him an awkward hug. 

“It’s always good to see you,” she said softly, so only he could hear. “Come by anytime.” He didn’t say anything. 

* * *

The sun was setting through the little curtains on the van windows. Arthur was driving again, and Molly had placed a comforting hand on his arm. 

“D’you think Percy’s going to marry Audrey?” Angelina burst through the silence, giving no hint of the sort of anxiety Molly would have expected from a young woman living with a man who had not yet proposed. 

“Oh, yeah,” said George. “Any time now, soon as he works up the nerve. That Percy’s a stickler for tradition, as soon as he can get the stick out of his rear end and admit he’s in love.” 

“George!” Molly reprimanded him.

Angelina burst out laughing. “You can say that again! She’s a lovely girl, though. Bit plain, bit difficult to talk to if I’m being honest––she’s just got no interests beyond crocheting dishcloths––but I like her. She improves him.” 

Molly sniffed loudly––she agreed with everything they were saying, but she felt she ought to show some disapproval of an outsider speaking so judgmentally about her Percy. 

“What do you think of Hermione, though?” Angelina persisted. 

George shrugged. “Always liked her. Brilliant girl. Great fun at family gatherings––Fred and I could get her awfully riled up. I’ll miss her.” 

 

Molly and Arthur dropped George and Angelina off at the Leaky Cauldron and headed back home to comfort their youngest son.


	8. The Fallout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron is bereft after his breakup. He discovers baby ghost Fred.

They found Ron in the attic, lying on his back moaning and groaning with a half-empty bottle of firewhisky clutched in his hand. The ghoul was floating above him, howling sympathetically. 

“Oh, Ronald,” clucked Molly. She knelt beside him and patted his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief. “Let’s get you up. You’ll be all right.” 

“I’ll never be all right again,” Ron moaned. “I don’t know what I’ll do without her. I’ve already gone bonkers, and it’s only been two hours.” 

“Right, I expect a lot of that is the firewhisky and the company you’re keeping,” said Molly matter-of-factly, looking pointedly at the ghoul. “Let’s draw you a nice bath and get you cleaned up, and I’ll make you a hearty meal. Bangers and mash, what do you say? Then I’ll tuck you into bed real nice, and you’ll see, everything will seem brighter come morning.” 

“It’s too late for me,” Ron howled dramatically. “I’m already hallucinating. Drowning in visions of our future we could have had.” He took another swig of firewhisky and swallowed it, sputtering. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Molly. “Some good food and a nice bed is all you need.” 

“What’s the point? I’m off my bloody rocker already,” said Ron. “Just leave me here to wallow in my misery. At least Rosie would have been cute. But now she’ll...never...exist….” He put his face in his hands now, sobbing, but he let Molly sit him up and hold him. 

Arthur pried the firewhisky out of his son’s hand and squinted suspiciously at the bottle, which had no label. “Is this home brew?” 

“Wot, is that dangerous?” Ron’s voice was quavery with tears, and he sounded a little scared. 

“Not always, but it could explain the hallucinating,” said Arthur matter-of-factly. 

“Yeah,” said Ron huskily. “I’ll have a good talk with Louis later. I keep seeing this baby following me around.” 

Molly gasped under her breath, and cast furtively around the room, but she didn’t see any sign of baby ghost Fred. Arthur got a cloudy look on his face. 

“Let’s get you downstairs, shall we?” Molly suggested. This time, Ron listened. He followed them slowly to the kitchen, leaning on Arthur for support at times, stumbling the whole way down. 

Molly fried up some bangers and mash while Arthur made Ron drink some water. After Molly set the platter of food in front of him, Arthur sat across from him at the table and faced his son seriously. 

“What happened?” 

“Hermione said we keep breaking up and fighting all the time, and that it’s not healthy. So she broke up with me again! How is _that_ healthy?” He buried his face in his hands.

“Did anything happen to precipitate this? Did you get in another fight?” This was Molly, hovering anxiously. 

“No, it was much worse than that. That’s how I know she means it! She was calm and she said she needed to talk to me. It caught me completely out of nowhere. I thought we were fine, remember? I love her! But she had to go and say…” Ron couldn’t go on. He took a tiny bite of food and chewed it slowly. At this, Molly’s heart sank. If there was one thing she could always rely on about Ron, it was his hearty appetite. He must be distraught indeed. 

Ron managed to swallow at last. He choked down some water. “She said we’re different people. But that’s what makes us great, though! Opposites attract, right? I thought we were a power couple, like yin and yang, or peanut butter and jelly, or colors that clash but still go together really well, or…” Ron paused; he seemed to be trying to think of more examples. 

“She said we don’t want the same things and we’re not going the same places in life. She says I’ll probably want to work in George’s joke shop, but she wants to be a lawyer and maybe run for office. But I don’t WANT to work in George’s joke shop, and even if I did, they’re both in London! It’s a similar commute!” He was casting about for reasons now. 

Molly looked at Arthur, not sure what to say. 

“Oh look,” said Ron languidly, gesturing. “It’s Katie. Or Louisa. Or...Hugo!” This set him off again, and he wiped his tears and blew his nose loudly with a tattered handkerchief. 

Molly looked where he had pointed, and gasped. It was baby Fred, a pale orange as usual, playing with the cat in the corner. 

But...how could Ron see...and more importantly, how could Ron _not_ see who it was…? 

Arthur noticed her looking, and his voice caught in his throat. “You can see him, too?” He asked huskily. 

Molly couldn’t speak—she nodded ferociously and buried her face in his chest. He held her tightly. 

“Well, gee,” Ron piped up after a moment. “I mean, I knew you lot loved me and everything, but I didn’t realize you were this invested in my future with Hermione.” 

Molly turned to face him, wiping a tear from her eyes, and sniffed angrily. “That’s not your baby. Can’t you see? That’s Fred!” 

Ron looked from her, to the baby, to Arthur, and back again. Then he laughed and shook his head and took a big bite of mash. 

“Nah,” he said. “That’s too little to be…” he swallowed, and couldn’t seem to say Fred’s name. “That’s a manifestation of my subconscious, is what that is.” 

Molly almost laughed with relief. She went over to the corner, where Fred was getting more and more frustrated at his attempts to ride the cat. His little face scrunched up with angry tears. She picked him up and he dug his little head into her shoulder and she patted it, smiling. She carried him back, and handed him to Arthur, who was waiting with outstretched arms. Arthur took Fred, watching with wonder as the ghostly toddler grabbed his nose. He hugged him tightly. 

Molly, watching, felt her heart swell with love for this wonderful man she had married, this brilliant man, this man who could love their child even when that child was a ghost. She squeezed herself under his arm and they stood like that for a long minute, Arthur with one arm around Molly and the other holding Fred, both of them gazing with wonder at the barely-there form of their son. 

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Ron’s face, frozen in pure shock. He slowly rose to his full awkward, gangly height, and came over, and gingerly touched baby ghost Fred’s back. His hand went through, but not immediately. Fred turned, giggling, and grabbed Ron’s finger in a chubby fist. Eyes twinkling, he bit it. Ron didn’t seem to feel anything. 

“I knew it,” he said slowly. “We _can’t_ be broken up. It’s not permanent. The magic of our love is too strong; so strong it’s created this...oh, wait til I tell Hermione; she’ll have to come back to me!”

His eyes were shining, but Molly shook her head and Arthur laid a heavy hand on his son’s shoulder. 

“That’s not how it works,” said Arthur. “She can still choose not to be with you.” 

Molly nodded her sad assent. “Trust me, you don’t want to force her.” 

Ron cast about between them for a moment; touched baby ghost Fred one last time; then turned and walked slowly and heavily and quietly away. His head was hanging, his shaggy locks bouncing as he went. They heard him going up all the stairs up to his room at the very top of the house. 

Molly looked at Arthur. “He’ll be all right,” she said, but this was really to herself. She knew it might take a while. She hugged baby ghost Fred tightly and kissed his little head, and Arthur did the same to her.


	9. Drama at the Ministry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Extra long chapter today! Ron doesn't want to go back to work, and there's drama when people run into each other at the Ministry. Hope you enjoy! :)

The next morning, Molly woke with the sun. She slipped on her dressing gown and wandered into the kitchen, where the first rays were piercing through the kitchen window to make shapes on the opposite wall. She checked the clock first thing, as she always did, and sighed in relief when no one’s hand pointed to “danger.” That had been a long, awful year. But, no: Bill, Fleur, and Percy were at home; Charlie was at work, but that made sense with the time change to Romania; Ron and George were still in bed; and Harry and Ginny were on holiday. Fred’s hand pointed steadily at _home,_ which it had done ever since his passing. She felt relieved every time she still saw it there; she had been worried it might pop off. Hermione had never been added to the clock. 

Arthur noticed her looking. He was already at the table in his dressing gown, sipping his morning tea and reading the _Prophet._ He smiled. “Morning, poppet.” 

Molly hobbled over for her good morning kiss. “Any good news?” 

“Ron hasn’t made the society pages yet, at least,” said Arthur. 

Molly groaned. “Of course. Oh. Oh, no. Oh, dear. Of course it’s going to be all over the papers once this gets out. _Witch Weekly,_ trampling through my potatoes––I’d best put an alarm spell out already––” at that she raced outside, clutching her dressing gown about her against the chill October air, and began muttering security spells to cover the lawn. 

She came inside to find Arthur laughing at her. 

“It’s happened before!” She snapped at him. It had happened when Ginny had been taken into the Chamber of Secrets. He sobered up at once. 

“Where’s Ron?” She asked after a moment. “Did he leave last night?” 

Arthur wasn’t sure, so Molly went up to go check. She clambered up the ramshackle stairs to Ron’s room just below the attic, where she paused, hands on her knees, struggling to catch her breath. She must be getting old. 

Ron had a sign on his door from when he was ten, labeled, “Keep out!” He had later charmed it so that it showed a stick-figure Ron blasting away all his stick-figure siblings with a tiny wand. They ran up to swarm him and then flew back in a stunned heap, over and over again. 

Molly frowned—she had never much liked the sign—and knocked. A loud groan answered her. 

“Ronald? It’s Mum. May I come in?” 

“Go ‘way,” Ron mumbled, apparently into a pillow. 

Molly turned the knob and pushed the door open. 

Ron was sprawled in his old twin bed, head not quite on the pillow, feet hanging off the end. He was still in his same clothes from last night, but he had kicked his shoes off at some point. 

“Right, living like this won’t do you any good,” said Molly briskly. “Get up; you’re going to be late for work.” 

“Don’t want to go to work.” 

“Well, you’re going. Get up; I’ve got some hangover potion downstairs. We’ll have you right as rain.” 

Ron rolled out of bed and stood, groaning. He was a sight, all rumpled clothing and messy hair and tufty stubble, and he didn’t smell particularly wonderful either. His eyes were pleading with her. 

“Don’t make me go like this. I haven’t got any other clothes…” 

Molly marched him downstairs, shoved some hangover potion down his throat, and put him in the shower. She went over to the fireplace and was about to floo to his apartment to grab him some clothes, when a thought occurred to her. She stepped back, announced his address, threw a pinch of powder onto the fire, and yelled, “ARE YOU DECENT?” Into the flames. 

Arthur burst out laughing from the kitchen. 

“I don’t want to see anything!” She protested. “I don’t know how long his roommates take to get ready.” 

“Want me to go?” Arthur came in, still clutching his sides. Molly nodded. He kissed her on the cheek and stepped into the flames. He shouted Ron’s address and was gone in a flash of green. 

Ron came stumbling out of the shower. 

“Eat this.” Molly presented him with a plate of toast. 

Ron looked miserable, and his hair was still a mess. 

“You’ve got ten minutes,” said Molly, attacking his hair with a comb. Then she slowed her assault, because he looked so very very sad and had taken only a mouse-sized bite of toast. 

Arthur stepped back out of the fireplace, holding some folded dress robes. “I’m glad you didn’t go, Molly.” 

“Why?” Visions of scolding the twins for lounging around in their knickers flashed through her head. “Were they not dressed yet?” 

Arthur shook his head. “It wasn’t that. It was the state of general...filth.” He looked like he was remembering something particularly traumatic. “Just...that lot could really use a house elf.” Ron flushed red all the way up to his ears. 

Molly sent Ron to his room to change, then marched up after a few minutes to drag him out when he hadn’t come down. 

“Right,” she said, reaching up to hold his face in both her hands. “You have a good day, now. I know you’re sad, and that’s okay. But you must dress up and go to work and do your job. When you come home I’ll make you a big chocolate pudding and you can be as sad as you need to.” 

Ron nodded. “Should I try to get her back?” 

Molly considered. “Perhaps, and perhaps not.” 

“Ugh,” said Ron dramatically, wrenching his face out of her hands. He espied baby ghost Fred, who had the end of a toilet paper roll clenched between his teeth and who was methodically marching across the floor to unravel it. Ron went over and picked him up for the first time. Molly was surprised to see how gently he held him in his arms. He looked at him seriously. “I won’t let you fade, I promise.” He kissed Fred on his little orange forehead. Molly’s heart melted a little. “And you can call me Dad.” 

Baby ghost Fred spat the toilet paper out of his mouth. “NO! Wonny-poo!” 

Ron’s face wrinkled in distaste. “Now that’s just disrespectful, innit?” He set the little ghost down again, though not before kissing him once more on the head.

“You ready?” Arthur had been watching the scene. 

Ron nodded. 

“Enjoy your day, poppet,” said Arthur, giving Molly a quick kiss. He looked seriously into her eyes. “Stop by the Ministry if you get lonely, won’t you?” 

“I won’t get lonely with this lot,” said Molly, smiling. Fred was now following Ron towards the fireplace, shrieking, _“WONNY-POO! WONNY-POO! WONNY-POO!”_

“Of course. Love you.” They stepped into the fireplace in turn, and were gone. 

* * *

As it turned out, Molly had to go into the Ministry after all, because Arthur had forgotten his lunch. 

She wasn’t going to go give it to him at first; she had thought he might come back for it. But as the hours ticked away and it got to be around noon and he still hadn’t appeared in the fireplace, she got a bit worried. What if he had too much work to do to be able to walk back to the entrance hall and access the floo network? What if he decided to scrounge together a couple of knuts for some of that terrible food they served in the cafe? What if he was swamped by files and starving? She couldn’t bear to think of him hungry, or, worse, choking down something inedible when she had prepared a perfectly delicious meal for him here; so a little after noon Molly packed up his lunch, stepped into the fireplace, and said firmly, “Ministry of Magic!” 

Molly always felt out of place arriving in the Ministry. Never mind that she had worked here as a young witch, as an assistant budget specialist for the Select Committee on Quidditch Governance, or later in life as a receptionist in the Department of Magical International Trade, when she was pregnant with Ginny and they knew money was about to get even more tight. The hustle and bustle—everyone’s clean, formal robes; their smart shoes clacking confidently on the floor—she knew how she must look, draped in her skirts and shawls. But at least she was warm. They were probably cold, and they were definitely not so comfortable. Molly squared her shoulders and marched over to the lift. The door clanged shut, but then it jerked down instead of up. Molly sighed. She must have gotten on the wrong lift. No matter; she would just ride it down and then up. She had time. 

“Department of Justice, and Department of Mysteries,” the elevator cooed after a few floors. The wizard who had gotten on the floor before got off here, and for a moment Molly thought she was going to be alone for the ride up, but then there was a flash of bushy hair and a yelped “Wait!” as the door was closing. Hermione stepped on. 

Her eyes were rimmed with red and her hair was tied up in a frizzy bun. She gave Molly a weak smile when she first got on, then shuffled away and studiously avoided eye contact. 

The elevator door ground shut. Molly looked at the ground, then at Hermione, shifting her weight restlessly back and forth to the balls of your feet. 

“Is that a case you’re working on?” 

Hermione was carrying a stack of books and papers so high it came to her chin. 

“What? Oh––yes.” She moved a hand to wipe a stray hair from in front of her eyes, but in doing so lost her balance on the books and they all came tumbling to the floor at once with a ferocious THUD! 

“Oh! I’m so sorry, dear––here, let me help.” Molly clutched up her skirts and knelt down at once. “These must be so heavy! Is there a reason you couldn’t just levitate them?” 

Hermione stared at her, looking both caught and bereft. She sank back to the ground and let her head lean against the wall of the elevator. “You know what, I’ve been so distracted I honestly forgot I could use magic on them,” she said forlornly. 

Molly set down the stack of books and moved to put an arm around her. The elevator door opened just then, and a wizard stopped short of getting in. 

“I’ll just come back later,” he said nervously. 

“That’s all right, we can all fit,” Molly reassured him. 

“No, no, it’ll just be a minute! Feel better,” he nodded at Hermione, who gave him a weak wave before letting her head fall onto Molly’s shoulder. The door shut again. 

“Are you all right?” Molly asked softly, after a moment. Hermione shook her head. 

“No,” she whispered. “I’m really not.” 

“What’s the matter?” 

“You know what it is.” 

Molly sighed. “Yes, Ron told us last night.” 

“How is he?” 

“He’ll be fine. He’s upset, of course. He loves you, you know.” 

“I know,” said Hermione, sounding like she was in pain. “I had to do it, though. I just had to. It wasn’t right anymore. Not for him, not for me...please don’t hate me; I really love your family and I simply couldn’t bear it if you hated me…” she burst into tears. 

“There, there,” Molly held her close. “We’re not going to hate you.” 

“I’m all alone,” she whispered. “Least until Harry comes back next week. But he’s all I’ve got.” 

“What about your parents? Haven’t they moved back?” Molly remembered something about Hermione sending her parents to Australia, to keep them safe during the war. 

“No one knows how to lift memory charms.” She sounded haunted. 

“You erased their memories?” Molly was horrified. She would have given her life in a second for any of her children, and it killed her every day that she hadn’t been able to do so for Fred. 

Hermione let out a big sob. “I wanted to reverse it! No one’s done it, of course, but I thought...maybe...I can figure it out. I thought I was smart enough, you know? But I’m not...I’m just stupid, I was such a fool, and now I’m not clever enough to fix it...and now I’m alone.” 

“You’re not alone,” said Molly fiercely. She may never have been close with Hermione, but she certainly wasn’t going to abandon her now. 

The elevator announced their floor. 

“Rest,” said Molly. “Come by Arthur’s office and let’s make you a cup of tea.” 

Hermione smiled weakly. “That’s very kind of you, but I can’t. I have too much work to do…” 

The door opened, revealing Draco Malfoy. He looked just as stunned to see them as Mrs. Weasley was to see him. 

“Hermione! Are you all right? I mean--Granger,” he stammered. “Hello, Mrs. Weasley.” 

He offered a hand, and after hesitating a moment Molly took it. She had her doubts about the Malfoy boy, but she was stuck on the floor and it was going to be a real exertion to get up without help. 

“Thank you,” she said, a little coldly. Draco was helping Hermione up now, and in a moment he had levitated all her books, arranging them alphabetically into a little floating library above her head. Hermione grinned in spite of herself. 

“Well,” said Draco after a moment, “I’ve just realized these books are under control of my wand and not yours. May I send them somewhere for you?” 

Hermione nodded shyly. “It’s the same room you met us in when you and your mother had your legal consultation.” 

“Right.” Draco got a look on his face like it wasn’t exactly a happy memory. 

Hermione turned to Molly. “May I take that cup of tea to go?” She asked quietly. 

“Yes, of course!” 

“Thank you,” she said, looking at her feet. “It just must be so awkward for you and Mr. Weasley, and I’m sure Ron could use comforting more than me.” 

“Are you all right?” This was Draco Malfoy, hovering next to them, still holding her books in the air with his wand. 

Hermione sniffed and wiped an eye. “Yes...I can tell you later. It’s only...well, yes, I’ll be back in a minute. Is that all right?” 

Draco was looking at her with a gaze that, to Molly’s chagrin, could only be described as empathetic. “Of course, have a tea. Shall I drop these off in your office?” 

Hermione nodded. “Yes, if you don’t mind. I hate to inconvenience you…” 

“It’s not an inconvenience.” 

Hermione smiled a tiny smile. “Well, thank you.” 

Molly put an arm through hers, wanting to hold her close and, if she was honest with herself, away from the Malfoy boy. “Let’s get you that cup of tea, shall we?” 

* * *

Arthur was indeed swamped with files. They were stacked up around him; piled high on a dingy chair; spilling out on the floor. He looked surprised to see Hermione. 

“Molly! Hermione!” He used his wand to clear a path, and hugged both of them. “I’d offer you a seat, but I’m afraid…” he gestured helplessly at the mess around him. 

“Lots of work?” 

“That portkey licensing case of Percy’s has spilled over into my office,” Arthur said wearily. “Apparently there’s a fear Muggles might fall victim to illicit portkeys. Unfounded, mind you. But Percy’s taken the precaution of subpoenaing all the portkey licenses unprotected by the statute of limitations, and apparently we are best equipped to determine if there may have been a problem with Muggles…” 

Molly shook her head. “He’s due for a scolding, that one.” 

“No, no, it’s quite all right, he’s just doing his job,” said Arthur. “I’m afraid I’ll have to stay late all this week, though.” 

Molly’s heart sank a little bit at the thought of evenings alone. Ron might be there, at least; though he was certain to be quite mopey. 

“That’s too bad, dear.” She gave him a peck on the cheek. “I brought your lunch—” she passed him the cloth-wrapped bundle. 

Arthur’s face lit up. “Thank you! I hadn’t realized I’d forgotten. My, is it that time already?” 

Molly smiled. “Well, I’ll let you get back to work. I just brought Hermione in for a cuppa. I found her in the lift, drowning under some paperwork of her own.” 

Hermione smiled in spite of herself. 

“Of course, of course. I’ve kept the kettle out on Allerton’s desk; more room, you see.” He herded them out into the anteroom, which was only slightly larger, and magically filled the kettle, charming some blue flames beneath it. “Hermione, how are you holding up?” 

Hermione took a breath, but it was shaky. “Well enough. I’m terribly sorry, again—”

Arthur shook his head. “Don’t be. We’re not upset with you.” 

There was a part of Molly that begged to differ, but Arthur was right; they had never been sure the relationship would work out. 

“Thank you,” said Hermione. “You’re beyond wonderful.” 

Arthur poured the tea into a little chipped cup. “Does this have to be to go? You’re welcome to stay longer.” 

Hermione shook her head. “I’m afraid it does. I’ve got case meetings, all week…” She checked a messy note she had scrawled on her wrist, which Molly noticed was not far above the still-visible “Mudblood” Bellatrix had etched there with a knife. “I’ve got to take notes on the Malfoy deposition in just a few minutes.” 

Molly shook her head inadvertently at the sight of the scar. “Is he being nice to you?” It slipped out––she was worried. 

“Draco?” Hermione looked up. “He’s been pleasant. Mellowed out; he’s better when he’s coming from a place of total defeat, you know? We’d study sometimes, at school for Eighth Year. Haven’t seen much of each other since; not really ethical when I’m his paralegal, you know? I know...Ron...thought there might be something more, but that’s really all it was. He’s a brilliant wizard, and we both learned more when we studied together. That’s it.” 

“Of course,” said Molly. She thought Hermione seemed at pains to defend herself. 

“Well.” Hermione flashed a toothy smile up at them. “Thank you so much for the tea, and for…” She set it down and hugged them each in turn. “Thank you.” She was out the door. 

Molly looked meaningfully at Arthur, who shrugged back at her. She gave him a hug. 

“How late’ll you be?”

“I’ll owl you if it’s after eight.” 

“I’ll let you get back to work. Good luck, taking care of all of this.” She tittered at the files spilling out of his office. 

“I’ll need it!” He doffed an imaginary hat. 

Molly laughed, and pushed out the door to see Ron down the hall. He was staring at her, frozen. She realized he must have seen her come out after Hermione. 

“Ron!” She called down, a forced cheeriness to her voice. “You doing all right?” 

He was at her side in an instant. “You and Dad were talking to Her…..MIONE?” 

She decided the best response was a frank nod. “Yes, dear.” 

“So there’s hope! We don’t hate her!” 

“Ron––” she tried to catch his sleeve, but he wrenched it out of her grasp as he tore down the hallway in the direction of Hermione’s office. 

Molly pressed the button for the lift in resignation. As the door clanged shut, she could hear a loud commotion down the hall. Several voices rose at once. 

“I can’t believe it—YOU—in here with HIM—”

“He. Is. A. CLIENT!!” This was Hermione, in a teary screech. 

“Shall I…” This was Draco, politely deferential. 

“YOU can go to—”

“SECURITY!!” 

“Going down,” the lift purred. Molly clapped a hand to her forehead. She was tired of picking up the pieces.


	10. Doubts and Diaries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just what—or who—is baby ghost Fred?

Molly went home after that. She arrived to find baby ghost Fred in the garden, where he looked extremely pale in the sunlight. He was chasing the gnomes. He would levitate himself above their nesting grounds, then swoop in and attempt to scare them. It was working brilliantly. 

“Fred!” Molly scurried over and tried to scoop him up, but he wriggled out clear through her arms. It felt like her arms had just been washed over by the surging waters of a storm sewer. Molly gasped out loud—she had been walked through by ghosts before, but never by anyone that... _solid._

“MAMA NO!” Fred shrieked, barreling from the air at a family of gnomes, which scattered, squeaking. He face planted in the dirt and turned to face Molly, grinning. “Mama no wike wittle ’omes! Mama wike Fweddy!” He raised his arms above his head to be picked up.

Molly obliged. She was thankful for the de-gnoming––he had been surprisingly effective at it––but she was worried the neighbors might have seen something. She looked around. There weren’t any neighbors in sight of the Burrow, at least; but there was a Muggle village just down the hill and some scattered wizarding families up and down the road. It was probably best for Fred to stay inside. She carried him in, then perched him on the table and looked around in shock. 

“Did you do this?!” Her kitchen looked like it had been picked up, turned inside out, and shaken for loose change. Pots and pans were everywhere; dishes were broken; even food was scattered all about the floor. 

Fred nodded and clapped his hands. “Milk!” 

Molly looked for the milk. “You’ve spilled it!” The bottle was shattered and there was a lake of milk on the floor. “I can’t make you any milk now that you’ve spilled it. There are consequences to your actions, Freddy.” It was a speech she had given him many times in real life, but now just like then he wasn’t really listening. He hopped off the table and floated over, then began licking the milk off the floor like a cat. “Fred, stop! That’s disgusting.” She picked him up, but Fred began to cry, so Molly used her wand to siphon a little of the milk into a bowl. She set him on the table and he plunged his head in while she cleaned up the kitchen. 

It was frustrating work, but the spells were simple. In a few minutes she had everything repaired and put back into cabinet or the icebox. Then she sat at the table, elbows on the table and chin in her hands, watching Fred imbibe the milk. He seemed to be going through it again and again, his mouth wide open, but not actually drinking it, and the level of milk was not going down. It occurred to her that she hadn’t yet seen Fred eat, or even cry out for food. 

She immediately felt a pang—how could she not have noticed that until now? Fred and all her other babies had wanted food, all the time, at all hours, even on the few gut-wrenching occasions when there wasn’t any. Feeding babies had occupied most of her time, for years; and there were also nappies needing to be changed, which this baby didn’t seem to have; and while he would shriek and break things, he wasn’t crying for her at all hours of the night, and all he ever wanted was attention or a tiny bit of comforting, not food or warmth or sleep. Was this just what ghosts were like? 

And then, a terrible thought entered her mind. What if the baby wasn’t Fred? What if Ron was right, and he wasn’t a ghost at all, but something else besides, something created much more recently? No, she thought, suddenly feeling that sinking feeling where the world bottoms out, like the feeling you get when you realize you’re with the wrong person. _It has to be him; I know him, I know his face—_ but there was another voice a little further back in her mind, saying, _you know how much this family looks alike. It could be anyone._

She got up, then—the little ghost baby looked at her quizzically, and then went back to his milk—and shut herself in her room and started pulling old albums off the high shelf in her closet. She desperately wanted the little ghost baby to be with her; had become accustomed to him for comfort—but it seemed unfair to the wee thing. She found the right album—smoothed the dust off the top—opened it. 

She was greeted by a much younger version of herself, still in her twenties. She was grinning madly at the camera, clutching her two newest babies, kissing one’s head. Arthur stood behind her, his hand on her shoulder, the other baby’s fist curled around his other finger, looking exhausted and surprised but with a delighted twinkle in his eye. 

The picture below it went back and forth into a blur. The babies wailed silently from their carriers; they had just arrived home. Molly was yelling something at Charlie, who was dragging a sobbing Percy across the floor by his foot. Then Bill hurled a ball into the camera, causing the picture to go all blurry. 

Molly frowned––the picture after that was from two years later. Had it really been two years? 

Fred and George were wearing little birthday hats and little jumpers with their initials, grinning as they plunged their grubby hands into the birthday cake and started smearing it on each others’ faces. Or was it—Molly looked closer. The twin on the left was wearing a knit jumper that said _F,_ but his hat said _G._ The other twin wore the _G_ jumper and a hat proclaiming, _F._ Had they switched the hats? Maybe, but they were very young, and the hats were tied into little bows…had she been the one to switch them accidentally? 

The next picture was of Molly, holding one twin close in her lap, talking to him while he smiled. Arthur must have taken it in a rare moment of peace. Molly realized she had no idea which twin she had been holding. She tore out the photo in a panic, but there was nothing written on the back. Could she really not tell them apart…? She turned the page. There the twins were at five—really? Had she not taken more photographs? But no, there was another one, a little baby in a sleeper flopping on his belly on the carpet. _This_ one was distinct; this one was definitely—her heart sank. It was Ron. She’d taken five photos of the twins in as many years, then failed to even give Ron his own album. Something caught in her throat. 

She reached for the first album from the pile strewn about her, from when Bill was a baby. It was thick, and when she opened it there were extra photographs stuffed between the pages, plus certificates and drawings and crumbling green leaves he must have waddled over and given her as presents. 

She paged through. There were a dozen birth photos—another dozen blurry photos of the newborn doing nothing but sleep—photos of Molly holding him, and cooing at him, and making him hold up signs for how old he was, and Arthur playing with him, and cuddling him, and pictures of every single birthday. 

Molly sat back, bereft. She knew why it had happened; remembered well Bill’s birth, when they’d had nothing but time, and then the twins’, when she’d suddenly had five small children to care for. But...had she really not been able to tell the twins apart? What if their names had gotten switched at some point? What if it was really George who had died, without knowing he was George, and it was Fred who was really down at the joke shop with Angelina? 

She felt something nuzzle up against her arm, and looked down. The baby ghost was pushing his way onto her lap. 

“Mama!” He cooed, opening his mouth to reveal sharp little teeth. The two in front were crooked. 

Molly relaxed then. A memory was surfacing, a memory she hadn’t thought of in years, of a night when Fred was seven, and she and Arthur had decided to fix his teeth. They’d sat him down on the living room floor, and laid out dental spellbooks all around. “Why me?” She remembered Fred protesting. “George doesn’t have crooked teeth! How will you tell us apart?” The next month the teeth, being baby teeth, fell out, and she’d felt like an idiot. 

But this was definitely Fred.


	11. Old Wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Updated: Harry and Ginny are coming back soon, but who to invite to their party?

Chapter Eleven 

A week passed. Ron had decided to go back to his flat, which, if Molly was honest with herself, was a relief. It wasn’t that she didn’t want him around; it was more that she was appalled at how much babying he still needed sometimes and was happy to see him be independent again. 

“Is Ron doing all right?” This was Arthur on the first night he didn’t have to work late, peering over his crossword. “I’ve only seen him at a distance at work; have you spoken to him recently?” 

“Is he? He hasn’t come back here, so I assume he’s fine. He got into some sort of altercation at the Ministry last week.” Molly had charmed her knitting needles to work on a baby blanket for Bill and Fleur’s baby, who was due in just a couple of months now. Her own baby, Fred, was nestled on her lap, snuffling gently. 

“Is that what all that noise was?” 

Molly laid her hand on Fred’s head, very softly so it wouldn’t go through. “Yes; as I was leaving he got it in his head to go talk to Hermione, but she was with Draco Malfoy and they had a bit of a row.” 

Arthur frowned. “I don’t like that boy.” 

Molly snorted. That was obvious, and mutual. The Weasley’s dislike of the Malfoy family was intensely personal. Not only had Lucius Malfoy tried to sabotage Arthur’s proposed Muggle Protection Act by planting Tom Riddle’s diary in their eleven-year-old daughter’s shopping, nearly killing her, but he had also been an insufferable blood purist ever since their days at Hogwarts. In the First Wizarding War, Lucius Malfoy had even been involved in murdering Molly’s brothers, Fabian and Gideon Prewett, but got off scot-free by claiming to have been under the Imperius Curse. 

“I heard some lawyers saying in the halls they’re projecting a win for Lucius. Apparently his team is working day and night, and they’ve built him a pretty strong case. D’you think Hermione knows?” Arthur asked after a minute. 

“About?” 

“Your brothers.” Molly shot him a hurt look, which he didn’t quite catch. Not here, not now. Not again with those painful memories. “I mean, I know it wouldn’t change much if she did. The law is the law; that’s what they teach them there. He got off and that means he’s innocent in the eyes of the law, even if he’s not, and every citizen deserves a rightful defense. They’re only going too far in the other direction.” He was referring to the Death Eater Trials during and after the First Wizarding War, which had been so hurried and so corrupted by fear that Sirius Black and others like him had been consigned to Azkaban without a fair hearing right along with all those who deserved it. 

Molly raised her eyebrows. “You’re the one who always says that’s important.” 

Arthur shrugged, but he seemed more upset than philosophical. “Yes; you know what, I respect Kingsley. Fair trials all around. You know what, never mind.” 

“Never mind?” 

“Forget it. They’re right.” 

_“Right?”_ Her knitting needles came to a sudden halt. “Which is worse, locking up the innocent or letting the guilty go free? The case can’t succeed. Lucius can’t go free. Not after all that. Why does he get the best lawyers and my brother gets buried in two separate graves because they could only find half of him at a time? They really are going to let off some of the Death Eaters, aren’t they! Don’t they understand that will just make it happen again?” She felt a stabbing pain in her hands, and realized she had unconsciously dug her fingernails into her palms. 

“It’s their fault they got assigned to the case and they’ve got to do a good job while she’s on it. For the Greater Good.” Arthur spat the slogan out. It had meant the eradication of Muggles, back in the time of Grindelwald, and Molly knew that he meant to twist and mock every inch of that history. She flicked her knitting with her wand, and it fell from the air into a limp heap. It was like her heart fell with it. She felt all the energy drain out of her at once, descending into one of those well-trodden depressive thought paths. 

She steadied herself. Closed her eyes. Took a deep, shaky breath. “Can we not talk about this?” She had grieved over her brothers for twenty years, shook with anger every time she saw the man who killed them. She had spent so much energy being angry at him that now the thought of summoning that up again made her want to curl up somewhere small and dark and sleep for days. 

“I’m sorry.” Arthur tried to busy himself with his crossword—they had been over this many times. United in their anger for years; but then Molly had to forget it to move on, while Arthur had to periodically talk it out. He picked up his pencil, put it down again. “I mean, it isn’t really about Kingsley, of course. Or even Lucius or Hermione.” 

Molly raised her eyebrows—half waiting patiently to hear what he had to say, half ready to put him down angrily if he started eulogizing Fabian and Gideon Prewett when she wasn’t in the mood to hear it, when she was curled up with her ghost baby on her lap and her husband home and finally feeling safe and okay for once. 

“It’s just been an awful, long week.” 

“It has.” Molly let her shoulders fall. “I’ve missed you terribly.” 

Arthur relaxed visibly. “Me too. You know what, next time I see Percy I’m putting my foot down. No more forcing me and my department to stay late.” 

Molly smiled after a moment, knowingly. “You won’t.” 

“No, probably not.” Arthur shrugged, but he was smiling now. “Hey! It’s just two days now until Ginny and Harry get back!” The two had been touring France for a month with the Holyhead Harpies. 

Molly felt some of the energy flow back into her. “You’re right! We should do something special to welcome them back.” 

“A party?” 

“Definitely.” 

“Wait. Ron or Hermione?” 

Molly frowned. “Neither.” 

Arthur shook his head. “Harry won’t think it’s a party without those two.” 

“What about a family gathering, here, with Ron, just the children, and then a work party at the Ministry with Hermione?” 

“Aha, yes. And we can invite both to the work party; most likely Hermione will only have time to drop in briefly, or one of them might not show up.” 

Molly frowned. “They’ll have to learn to be civil to each other eventually.” 

“Not after a week. They were together almost a year; remember how tough it was for Snyde?” 

Molly burst out laughing. Snyde was a shy Ravenclaw with whom she had gone on two date-ish walks around the grounds in Fourth Year. When she started seeing Arthur in Fifth, it had taken Snyde months to speak to either of them again. “Oh, they’re better than that.” 

Arthur raised his eyebrows and went back to his crossword, but he was smiling again.


	12. The Surprise Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Ginny are back from France, and they have big news.

“How does this bloody lock work, anyway?” 

“Are you sure it’s locked?” 

“Course it is. Mum always forgets to unlock it at night—” The door to the Burrow slid open, casting a sliver of moonlight on the dark floor. 

“SURPRISE!” 

Harry’s wand went up automatically, illuminating the room. His face broke into a grin as he saw a crowd of red-headed Weasleys swooping in to tackle them in hugs. Next to him, Ginny threw her hands over her face in delight. Molly rushed to hug her. 

“Ginny, Ginny, I missed you! 3 for 4; we’re so proud!” Something clicked in her head and she pulled back, holding her daughter’s hand up to the light. “What’s this?” 

Ginny laughed. “It’s a ring, Mum.” 

Molly gasped, and for once she was at a loss for words. She could feel herself making a frightening sort of wheezing intake noise, while she found Arthur’s arm in the crowd and hit it wildly. _“Ar-thur!!”_

He looked after what seemed like an eternity. Molly pointed at Ginny, who was doubled over laughing. He engulfed her in a hug. “3 for 4! Your mother and I are so proud.” 

_“I already said that,”_ Molly hissed, still struggling for words. _“Look!”_

Arthur didn’t seem to see where she was pointing, but just then Harry freed himself from Ron’s drooping embrace long enough to reach over and take Ginny’s hand in his.

“We have our own surprise,” Harry said, grinning. 

_“Another baby?”_ Molly practically fainted. Ginny had to catch her. 

“No, Mum; Merlin’s beard. The ring is the surprise.” 

Molly smiled so wide she thought her face might crack open, and she suddenly didn’t care about standing anymore. 

“Bill—argh—help me—” Ginny and Bill lowered her carefully to the floor, where she sat, tears streaming down her face. 

Harry knelt down next to her. “Mrs. Weasley, are you okay? We were going to ask you first, but the game schedule, and then it was just the perfect night…” 

Molly shook her head and grasped his hand to her heart. “No, no, dear. You can call me _Mum.”_

Harry relaxed. “So...er... _Mum_ ...have we got your blessing, then?” 

“Two weddings, and babies, and my first son-in-law! Of course you have.” 

“Er, we’re still not having a baby.” 

“I know.” She smiled up at him. “But you will.” 

“Erm...right.” Harry lost himself back in the crowd. 

Ginny was beside her now. “Isn’t it wonderful, Mum?” 

She held her tight. “I’m so happy for you. So happy. So, so happy. Go tell your brother he has to get married too!” 

Ginny laughed. “Not gonna tell him that. Would you like to see my ring?” She showed it to Molly. It was a simple, thick gold band, but as they watched it slowly melted and morphed into a tiny koala, which curled around and hugged her ring finger. “Harry dipped off to Chennai one weekend and had it made especially for me.” She stroked the koala, her face a beacon of pure joy. “It changes shape all the time, he said it’s to keep me interested. I just think it’s sweet.” 

“It is. It’s very sweet.” Molly squeezed her again, then pushed her back to get a good look in her eyes. “You’re sure this is what you want? He’s not rushing you or anything? The war is over, you know.” 

“No, of course not. I just love him and I don’t think that’s going to change. But we’re not in a hurry; we might not actually get married for a few years yet.” 

“No hurry?” It was like the gears in Molly’s head came to a sudden grinding halt. But flowers and invitations and seating charts! And venues and music and food! 

Ginny shook her head. “Nah. We’re so young, you know? And I don’t want to live in Grimmauld Place, so we’re going to work for a bit and save up for a place of our own.” 

“That’s very good thinking of you. You know, your father and I got married two weeks after he proposed. ‘Course it was the war and everything, and it was _wildly_ romantic and we spent the honeymoon week in this lovely penthouse suite downtown—the Muggles who owned it were away—and we learned together how to use a microwave, but really we were so young. It would have been nice to not be in such a hurry.” 

“Cake!” George was saying now. “Everyone for cake!” 

“Here, Mum, let me help you up—” Ginny seized an arm and helped Molly to her feet. They followed everyone into the kitchen and took a seat across from Ron and Harry, who reached over to hold both Ginny’s hands in his, looking happily into her eyes. 

“Stuff it, won’t you?” George levitated two plates of cake between them. 

“Congratulations!” Angelina appeared out of nowhere behind Harry and engulfed him in a hug. He choked on the bite of cake he had just eaten, and she pounded him on the back. 

“Ginny!” Arthur had finally located his daughter, who got up off the bench to give him a proper hug. He reached around and squeezed Molly’s hand. “Your mother and I are so proud.” 

“Thanks Dad,” said Ginny, sounding a little out of breath. “Harry’s sorry we didn’t ask, but we wanted to tell you in person.” 

Arthur released her and sat down next to her, so that he and Molly had Ginny between then. Ginny grinned happily over at Harry, across from her between Ron and George. 

“Our seventh son,” said Molly dreamily. 

“You take care of her now.” Arthur looked at Harry seriously. 

Harry swallowed his latest piece of cake and chugged down some butterbeer to get rid of it—they’d bought cases especially for the celebration. “Of course, Mr. Weasley.” 

“Move over!” Angelina shoved Harry aside and moved in next to George. “So! How does it feel to be engaged?” 

“Wonderful.” Ginny laughed. 

“I’ll bet it does.” Ron sounded as droopy as he looked, which was droopy enough to be a cause for concern and made George reach over Angelina and Harry to pat him on the hand. 

“There, there, ickle Ronnikins; it’s going to be all right.” 

Ginny and Harry looked from Ron to George, confused. 

“Hermione dumped him,” George answered in a stage whisper. 

“Oh,” said Ginny. “Oh. That’s really awkward. I was going to ask Hermione to be my bridesmaid.” 

“Is that why she’s not here?” Harry looked about a little sadly. “Er, I mean, Ron, I’m so sorry to hear about that. How have you been?” 

Ron chugged half his butterbeer and burped, distraught. “I was going to marry Hermione too, you know!” 

George shook his head. “No, you weren’t.” 

“I was too! I had a ring picked out and everything!” 

“Yeah? What did it look like?” 

“It was going to be a ring, you know, metal in a circle, gold probably, with a big wonderful jewel in the middle, and she was going to love it and wear it forever.” 

“Right.” George nodded ironically. 

“I’m not making this up! I’m getting Nan and Grandad’s ring, and it’s beautiful.” 

“No, that’s for George, actually, when he wants it.” Molly hated to swat the poor boy down, but an opportunity to cajole George into marriage was not to be missed. Ron looked at her, bruised. 

Arthur tapped her on the shoulder, behind Ginny. “Er...Percy asked for it.” 

“He did?” Molly’s eyes got wide. 

“He’s not planning on using it any time soon, but he dropped by and asked to see it.” 

“And he didn’t ask me?”

“Well, you were out…” 

“Oh!” Molly clasped her hands over her heart in ecstasy. Three more children, all paired off! “Have we got enough rings for all of them?” She hissed at Arthur. 

“Well, we’re taken care of,” said Harry, who had apparently heard of them. He lifted Ginny’s hand for all to see. Her ring, which was currently a lizard-shaped bracelet, slithered up from her wrist to form a tiny lion, which roared a little mew and lay down to take a nap around her ring finger. 

“I love it!” Angelina clapped. “George, take notes. Ask Harry where he got it.” 

George nodded and mimed scribbling down something on a notepad. 

“I want a tiny snake to honor my Slytherin heritage, and I want to be able to have it leap off my hand and bite people.” 

“A ferocious snake for my devious bride.” George pretended to stuff his notes in his pocket. 

“GINNY!” Bill hollered, swooping in, followed by a very pregnant Fleur. He engulfed her in a hug. “We all think you’re too young for this, but congratulations anyway.” 

“Yes, yes, we are so ’appy for you.” Fleur flashed a beautiful smile. “You too, ’Arry. I was just saying to Bill, on ze way over, I wonder when ’Arry will commit to Ginny? She must be worried, what with all ze beautiful women ’e works with.” The expression on Ginny’s face said that hadn’t previously occurred to her. “But no longer! Welcome to ze family, ’Arry.” 

“Yes, welcome,” snapped Molly, who felt like she was the one who should be doing the welcoming. 

“Percy couldn’t make it?” Ginny had looked around and apparently counted all her siblings. 

Arthur grimaced. “He sends his best and says he’ll try to make it to the work party at the Ministry tomorrow, but apparently this portkey licensing auction won’t write its own whitepapers.” 

“Typical.” Ginny looked huffy. 

“Work party?” Harry downed the last of his butterbeer, which Ron immediately refilled. “Thanks, Ron.” 

“Well, it was just going to be a little welcome-home coffee, but now that we have an engagement to celebrate, we should make it a party!” Molly’s eyes lit up. “I’ll make an enchanted cake, like her ring.” 

“Should we send Percy an owl? He might come if he finds out.” 

“Nah.” Ginny shook her head. “Let him rot in licensing hell. He can find out what he missed tomorrow.” 

“Charlie?” 

Harry looked uncomfortable. “Er, well, he already knows.” 

“We got engaged a week ago, before he popped up to visit. More butterbeer?” Ginny held out her empty glass to Ron, who obliged. “He’s thrilled. Could barely keep a secret; he was bursting at the seams to tell you lot.” 

“So?” Angelina leaned forward. “How did he propose?” 

“Well, it was very romantic,” said Ginny, while Harry ducked his head, looking bashful. “It was a perfect clear night for seeing the stars. He booked us a fancy dinner on the top of the Eiffel Tower, and afterwards he asked me on the observation deck. Then we drank champagne with the waiters and tried to make out the constellations.” 

“Classic!” Arthur beamed. “An ordinary muggle proposal! I read about this in _Metropolitan.”_

_“Cosmopolitan?”_ Harry looked confused. 

“Yes, that’s it! The muggle magazine for women. I found it in a rubbish bin.” 

Molly glared at her husband. “I’m sure Harry thought it was romantic of his own accord, and muggles happen to agree.” 

“It’s a compliment!” Arthur protested. “They have an excellent culture for proposals.” 

Harry looked a little embarrased. “Do wizards propose...differently?” 

“There’s usually a special magical promise involved,” said Molly. “When Arthur asked me, he conjured up a rain of roses to fill the attic storage room we were hiding from the Death Eaters in. Then we bound ourselves together with a traditional spell. But there’s not so much of a culture around how you ask.” 

“It’s all right, Harry.” Ginny reaches for his hand. “I loved the way you asked; it was so special. And I _did_ make him do the spell,” she shot at Molly. 

“It sounds lovely, dear,” said Molly. “Well done, Harry. Again, we’re all so happy for you.” 

A chorus of voices loudly agreed, even Ron. 

 

Later that night, once all the guests had gone home and Harry and Ginny were asleep in (separate, Molly had made sure) rooms upstairs, Molly asked a question that had been bothering her. 

“Do you think we should tell them?” Baby ghost Fred was curled up on the bed between them, languidly plunging his arm through the mattress and back up again. “I’m just worried how they...George...what they’ll think.” 

“Yeah.” Arthur put down his paper and took off his reading glasses. “We can’t hide him, though.” 

It was a lucky fluke Fred hadn’t come downstairs earlier, due entirely to the fact he’d spent three hours completely ripping apart their bedroom. They’d come back to find drawers removed, clothes strewn all over the floor, and Fred in the middle, happily pretending to swallow Molly’s earring collection. 

“You’re right.” Molly patted the little ghost gently. He turned around and bit through her finger. She laughed. 

“We could let him reveal himself on his own time?” Arthur suggested. 

“Like with Ron?” 

“It would be hard to prevent. But Ron isn’t angry.” 

“Okay.” She gazed back a little Fred, with his chubby arms and his perfectly round cheeks and his sticky hair. “There’s nothing wrong with him. I just don’t want to...I mean, we should tell them, and we’ll have to tell them eventually.” 

“You just want him to be our little secret.” Arthur reached over and squeezed her hand. 

“Yeah.” 

Arthur smiled. “Okay.” He turned out the light.


	13. Shapeshifting Cake and Invisible People

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now with chapter names! :) Molly can’t find Fred anywhere. Or Ron, for that matter.

Molly woke up early the next morning to see Harry off for his first day back to work. His robes were immaculately pressed, but his hair was as messy as ever. She frowned. He might have saved the wizarding world, but how the boy thought he was ever going to get promoted looking like that...

“It’s your first day; you have got to look presentable.” She dunked her hand in the sink and attacked him with a wet comb. 

“Ow! Stop it!” Harry tried to dodge her, but tenacity was something on which Molly prided herself. She chased him across the kitchen. 

“Mum, give it a rest,” said Ginny, sipping a mug of instant coffee in the corner. “It’s never gonna work.” 

“Not yet it hasn’t. Harry, if you’ll sit down for a minute, there were some hairdressing spells in _Witch Weekly_ that ought to work wonders—”

“Oh, come off it, Mum!” Ginny got up now, and abandoned her coffee, so Molly knew she was serious. “I like it like this. It’s cool.” She edged Molly out of the way and gave Harry a passionate kiss on the lips just as Arthur walked in. 

“Bugger,” he said, bleary-eyed, his eyes like saucers. “Good morning, everyone.” 

“Good morning, dear.” Molly gave him a kiss of his own. 

Arthur wiped his eyes. “Big day, eh?” 

“Oh, yes.” Ginny led Harry back to his porridge and resumed her perch on the counter. “Big day of rest for me.” 

The Holyhead Harpies had a week off after the European leg of the season, so Ginny had a few days to recuperate before a weekend in Northern Ireland facing the Ballycastle Bats. 

Molly smiled at her daughter, who looked strong and beautiful perched on the edge of the counter, drinking something for fuel and not taste. She noticed her engagement ring had turned into a tiny Ginny, who seemed to be snoring—she must not have had enough coffee yet. 

“Any idea what they’ve got planned for you, Harry?” Arthur sat down and unfolded his _Daily Prophet_ from habit, but didn’t look at it. 

“I have no idea, but it’ll be overwhelming, whatever it is. Ron said last night it’s been a lot of house visits, now that Hogwarts is cleaned up. Going to check on people, see if they’re up to no good. Trying to make sure the war doesn’t happen again.” 

“It won’t, without Voldemort.” Ginny was swinging her legs nonchalantly. 

“Yeah, but there’s still work to do, getting all the purebloods on board with a more open society.” 

“What, and house visits are gonna do that?” Ginny puffed up her face and put on a mocking tone. “’Ello there, we noticed in your file that you supported the rise of the Dark Lord. Planning to murder any Muggles in his absence?” 

Harry shrugged. “I dunno what script they’re giving us. They haven’t been doing it long enough to know if it works, yet.” 

“Well good luck,” said Ginny sarcastically. “You’re probably the one to send to sort out the difference. Anyone who falls at your feet and praises you to the heavens is probably compensating for something.” 

Harry smiled into his pumpkin juice. 

“You ready?” Arthur had tugged on his boots and was pulling on the laces. 

“Yeah, just a minute.” Harry finished off the juice with another swig and scarfed down some more porridge. 

“You’re really going with your hair like that?” Molly wrung her hands. 

“Yeah.” Harry ran a hand through it. “It’s not me; I can’t style it. It’s my dad’s last gift to me, I hear.” 

“So he would look cool.” Ginny set down her coffee and crossed over to Harry, running both her hands through his hair. Harry’s eyes fluttered sensually. 

“Oh, all right.” Molly gave up then. “Have a good day!” She advanced, arms out for a hug, but had to wait first while Ginny gave her fiancé a lengthy goodbye kiss. Then Harry, a little red around the ears, let Molly embrace him on his way to the fireplace. 

“Have fun catching dark wizards!” Ginny waved at him from the table. “Don’t let them off just because they might be elderly!” 

Harry grinned and waved back. “No chance.” 

“Right, after you.” Arthur tossed Floo powder on the flames, and they flared green. 

Harry stepped in. “Ministry of Magic!” And he was gone. 

Arthur turned and smiled at Molly and Ginny. “See you later for the party?” 

“Of course, dear.” 

“Brilliant. Ministry of Magic!” And Arthur was gone too. 

Molly started on her cake then, pulling out her mother’s twelve-pound cookbook full of magical recipes. She laid it on the table and shook back her sleeves, squinting at the diagrams. Shape-shifting cakes took lots of intricate spellwork, and she was going to have to draw on the precise wrist motions she had learned years ago in Transfiguration. 

“Ginny, would you mind packaging up drinks for the party? There’s crates in the pantry.” 

Ginny nodded and slouched over to the sink. _“Aguamenti!”_ She rinsed out her coffee mug and set it upside down to dry, then headed for the pantry. “All of this?” 

“Just the pumpkin juice and firewhisky. And butterbeer, if there’s any left.” Molly summoned the ingredients to the table, whisking just the right amounts out of their containers and combining them in a large bowl.

“There’s not much.” Ginny started levitating dusty bottles out onto the table. “Are we carrying all this to the Ministry?” 

Molly shook her head. “I’ll send Errol with packages.” She stirred a little more furiously. “Your father asked me if I wanted to drive everything in the van so he wouldn’t have to pop down to the atrium every few hours.” 

Ginny snorted. “Do you even know how to switch that thing on?” 

Molly swished her wand, causing the wet cake batter to swoop out of the bowl and form a rotating halo of stars, then rain back into the bowl in a waterfall motion. “If I die without ever laying a finger on the wheel, I will die a happy woman.” 

* * *

Ginny went back to bed after that for a multi-hour nap, but when she awoke she made the mistake of asking if there was anything she could help with, and Molly put her right to work. The windows needed scouring, the light fixtures on the twins’ floor needed mending, and there was a crack in the foundation that needed some careful repairing. By the time they were done cleaning out the broom shed, Ginny demanded a break. 

“Mum. Stop.” She held up her palms, which were filthy. “It’s an hour til the thing at the Ministry.” 

“All right, go get ready then.” Molly was on her knees inspecting the shed’s foundations. Now that it was clean on the inside, she noticed it looked wobbly as a whole. “I’ll be in in a bit.” 

“Is this what you do all day?” 

Molly turned around to face her, and blew a stray wisp of hair out of her face. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

Ginny shrugged. “Nothing.” She looked at her shoes, shuffling her feet. “I’m just wondering if Harry and I are gonna be able to keep whatever place we end up in livable if we’ve both got our jobs.” 

Molly stood up, and came over, and put her hands on Ginny’s shoulders. She fixed her with a stern glare. “Yes. Do you want to know why? Because you’re not going to live in the Burrow. You’re not going to build your house yourself. You and Harry are going to be different, because you’re going to be older and you’re going to have money.”

Ginny blinked and looked away. “Mum…” 

“You’re not going to be like me. Your father and I are very happy! Don’t worry about us. But you, you’re going to have a house elf. Or, if Harry won’t keep Kreacher around, you’re going to invent a spell, or your house just won’t be that clean. But you’re not going to stay home to fix it. You’re going to play Quidditch and you’re going to be wonderful.” Molly realized there were tears pricking her eyes. “Don’t think you have to give that up.” She wrapped her daughter in a big hug. 

“Yeah.” Ginny’s voice sounded choked. Molly released her after a moment. 

“Now let’s get you all cleaned up for this party,” she said, rubbing her hands together briskly. “Know what you’re going to wear?” 

“The blue silk dress, I think. It’s new; I’ll put it on and show you…” 

“You do that.” 

They went inside together, and Ginny dashed upstairs while Molly rinsed off her hands in the sink. Then Molly went to her own room to get dressed. She looked around and sniffed. It was comfortable and warm and safe, but it was also patchy and a little...dumpy. She could see that sometimes, when she let herself. The bedspread was old and fraying, the furniture all banged up from years of use. Her few pieces of jewelry were real and valuable, inherited or presents from Arthur she had begged him to stop buying, but they were stored in a thin little wooden box Percy had glued together for her as a child. Most of the clothes stuffed into the wardrobe were patched and older than their children. 

She sat on the bed, which made an ominous creaking noise. Arthur had repaired it, what, a dozen times? Someday the magic just wouldn’t hold. 

Molly clasped her hands together. It would, though. That was the thing about magic. You could keep a shoebox house together for thirty-three years, or Gryffindor tower a thousand feet above the ground for thirty times that, or you could share a love that would outlast your life. 

What dress would be right to celebrate her daughter finding a love like that? 

She went over to the closet and pulled out a long orange skirt, with a green trim around the bottom. No; that wouldn’t do. Perhaps the brown dress?...too frumpy. She finally decided on a green chiffon dress with flowing sleeves when she noticed something felt off. She looked around the room, but everything seemed fine; everything was in its place. 

She looked around a second time, her heart beating just a little bit faster. No; her room was clean. That wasn’t right. Where was baby ghost Fred? 

“Fred?” She whispered, not wanting to frighten Ginny. “Fred, are you here, darling?” There was no response. 

She changed into the green dress, her pulse racing, and tip-toed upstairs, past Ginny’s open door where she was blasting the Weird Sisters while she curled her eyelashes, past the room where Bill and Charlie used to sleep. She took a deep breath and turned the handle on the door to the twins’ room, where she had first found baby ghost Fred. But the room was still just as Fred and George had left it: the Quidditch bedspreads, the enormous pile of boxes in the corner. It was still and the dust was gathering again and there was no ghost inside. 

The music switched off. “Mum? Mum! I’m ready!” Ginny’s voice rang through the cramped stairwell, giving Molly a start. 

“Just a moment!” Molly closed her eyes tight, steeling herself. What if Fred was gone? What if she would never see him again? 

The world seemed to spin around her. She couldn’t lose him all over again. She couldn’t. She couldn’t. 

“Mum! We’re gonna be late!” 

“Just go without me.” 

Ginny’s footsteps were crashing up the stairs now. Molly closed the door to the twins’ room and ran upstairs to the next landing—it wouldn’t do for Ginny to think she was grieving over the twins again, because then Ginny would be sad too, and Ginny wouldn’t go to the party, and Arthur would have made a dozen trips up and down the Ministry lift fetching drinks and appetizers for nothing. 

“You okay, Mum?” She was framed against the stairs now, her red hair glistening in the dusty shaft of sunlight from the window. 

“Yes, I just remembered something I need to do. Go on ahead.” 

“What is it?” 

“It’s a...it’s for you, and Harry, but it’s broken and I need to fix it.” Molly’s mind started racing, wondering what sort of present she could dig up now to make that true. 

“Aww, you don’t need to get us anything, Mum. You already made the cake.” 

Molly managed a weak smile. “Just run along, and tell your father I’ll be there in a minute. You don’t want to be late for your own engagement party.” 

“All right.” Ginny stepped down a couple of stairs. “But we won’t start without you, okay?” 

“Don’t worry, I won’t be a minute.” 

“Great.” Ginny hopped back up the stairs to give Molly a quick peck on the cheek. “Thanks again for putting this all together, Mum.” 

“Anytime.” Molly watched as she leapt down the stairs, two at a time, holding to the rails for balance, and then she heard a whooshing noise as Ginny summoned up the Floo Network. Her face fell when she knew she was gone and it felt like an anvil descended onto her back. 

Where was baby ghost Fred? 

Molly climbed into the attic, but the ghoul seemed to be alone. He was barely visible, just lines against the wall, snoring or snuffling or something in the corner. 

“Have you seen Fred?” Molly asked, her voice quivering a little bit. 

“OOOOAHHH?” He roused himself and turned to look at her, letting out a wail.

“The little baby? You played with him the other day? You watched him?” 

“AAAAUG.” 

Molly turned, her eyes prickling a little bit. The toys were still strewn all about the attic, just where baby ghost Fred had left them the last time she had brought him up here. It didn’t look like they’d been touched since.

She languidly thanked the ghoul for his help and went back down the stairs. She checked every room in the house, and then she checked them again, and then she wept a little, and then she dried her eyes and went to the garden, and checked under all the plants and in the broomshed she had cleaned earlier even though she knew he wasn’t there. 

By then she was going to be very late, so she pulled herself together and put on a nice necklace, for Ginny. She ran a comb through her hair and stepped in the fireplace, taking one last lingering look around the house for her tiny ghost son. She didn’t see anything. 

She sniffed. “Ministry of Magic!” 

Molly arrived in the almost-deserted atrium. A couple of stray witches and wizards scurried across the marble floor to the fireplaces lining the walls, traveling cloaks on and their briefcases tucked under their arms, but save for the echoes of their footsteps, the vast hall was silent. Her dress boots clacked and bounced off the walls, and the metallic crash of the lift grate as she closed it was so loud she shuddered. She didn’t meet anyone on her way up to Arthur’s floor, but as the lift climbed higher she started to hear voices. She stepped out into a pleasant gathering. It looked like Arthur had staged snacks and drinks in his tiny office, and guests had spilled out of it into the hallway and neighboring offices. 

“Molly! Congratulations.” The man closest to her turned and revealed himself to be Kingsley Shacklebolt, who gave her a hug. 

“Minister! I wasn’t expecting to see you here.” Molly had known Kingsley for years, but she felt a bit shy after his election. 

“Nonsense!” He beamed. “I couldn’t miss celebrating the engagement of two of our youngest members of the Order of the Phoenix.” 

“Well…” Molly began. She thought she had been very clear to Harry and her children that they were _not_ full members of that organization. 

“Ah, speak of the devil!” Kingsley released her to give Harry a pat on the back. “Does this mean it’s time for toasts?” 

“Just about,” said Harry. “Hi...Mum.” He sounded awkward saying it, so Molly gave him an encouraging smile. “Do you need any help? Ginny said you had to stay and fix something?” 

“It’s all right now, dear. Have you seen Arthur?” 

“He’s right over there.” Harry pointed to the drinks table, where Arthur was engaged in animated conversation with a witch who looked like she couldn’t wait to leave. 

Molly thanked him and told Kingsley she’d see him later. 

“Understood, understood. So Harry, how’s the Auror office treating you?” 

Molly was off to see Arthur in the corner before Harry got much beyond “Well.” She passed around her cake, which was serving as a centerpiece for the room, changing shape every few minutes on a fold-up table, and tapped him on the shoulder. 

“Molly!” He turned, a big grin on his face, a drink in each hand. “Firewhisky? Rosemary suggested we mix it with this drink we seized in a raid on a wizard misusing muggle artifacts. It’s very toxic; I believe they use it to scour corrosive metals? Delicious, though.” He handed her a bubbling black elixir. 

“Arthur, I need to talk to you.” Molly pushed her hair out of her face, holding the drink without taking a sip.

They stepped down the hallway. “Is everything all right?” 

“I can’t find Fred anywhere.” 

Arthur’s brow creased in concern. “Anywhere?” 

“He’s not with the ghoul, our room is in mint condition, everything’s clean. He hasn’t knocked anything over all day, or made any noise at all!” 

She could see the gears in Arthur’s mind turning. “Do you think he’s turned invisible?” 

She paused and let herself breath a little. “I hadn’t thought of that.” 

“Ghosts turn invisible sometimes, right? Doesn’t Nearly Headless Nick pop off sometimes, when he’s had enough of pranksters?” 

Molly didn’t like having her baby compared to Nearly Headless Nick, but she nodded, relieved. 

Arthur laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I’m sure he’ll turn up.” 

Molly leaned into him. “You’re probably right.” She rested her head on his chest. “You know, it’s odd, having a ghost baby.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Gives me a feeling of...well, he’s gone off on his own, and that’s all right, apparently.” She shook her head. “He doesn’t feel like a baby at all, that way.” 

Arthur squeezed her shoulder. “Sure he is. He’s just as messy as he really was.” 

Molly laughed just a little. “True.” In life, she and Arthur had often joked that the twins seemed to have it as a personal mission to never let Molly have a clean house. 

Arthur held her a moment longer. “Right, I think they’re waiting for us now. You ready to give a toast?” 

Molly stepped back and nodded. 

 

“And in conclusion,” Arthur was saying, his glass, raised aloft, “We are so excited to welcome Harry as a full member of our family—a seventh son, if you will—and I can’t imagine anyone I would rather have for a son-in-law. To Ginny and Harry!” 

Molly and everyone else raised their glasses and murmured the names in unison. Molly took a swig of the muggle drink Arthur had given her and sputtered, surprised at its bubbly texture. It was very good, though. She took another sip.

The group broke open and began to mingle again. In the corner she saw the lift open and Hermione race out and throw her arms around Harry. 

“Harry!” She yelled, while Harry stumbled at the impact and tried to keep his drink from spilling.  
“You and Ginny! I can’t believe it. I’m so happy for you. I’m sorry I missed the toasts—here, I’ll give you my own—” she reached over to the drink table and grabbed a waiting bottle of butterbeer, then used her wand to magick the cap off. “To the best couple ever!” 

Harry raised his drink and his eyebrows, amused, and took a drink with her. 

“Molly!” Arthur waved her over. “How do we cut this magnificent cake of yours?” 

The cake was shapeshifting beautifully, moving fluidly every few minutes from a rabbit shape to a star to a floating orb. Molly had transfigured it such that even the icing would change hues. 

“Cut it? You just have to ask it nicely,” said Molly with a coy smile, momentarily distracted. She was glad he had asked—this was a bit of baking magic that ought to impress even Audrey, who was hanging on Percy’s arm a few feet away. She cleared her throat loudly to get everyone’s attention, then waved her wand and said clearly, _“Domini.”_ The cake obeyed, shifting at once into something resembling a complex rubix cube, each cube a different shade of the rainbow. The cubes began sliding off one by one, and Molly sent the stack of plates flying to meet them. She delivered each smoothly to the party guests. Cheers erupted among them. Molly took a mock bow, flushing, and took up her own slice of cake. 

“You must teach me how to do that!” Audrey cosied up to her, swallowing a dainty bite. “Wherever did you learn?” 

“My mother’s spellbook,” said Molly. “It’s been in my family for generations.” 

“Oh!” Audrey fairly gasped in delight. “Might I have a look at it some time? I mean, I understand if you’d like to keep some of them to yourself, of course.” 

“Anytime.” Molly smiled—she was beginning to like Audrey very much. “You can have a look and I’ll help you copy out anything that strikes your fancy.” 

“You are so kind.” Audrey beamed. 

“Molly Weasley?” Someone tapped her on the shoulder. Molly turned to see a tall wizard, dressed in scarlet robes, his waist-length dreadlocks pulled back in a loose ponytail. “Gordon Williamson. Head of the Auror Office. How’s Ron doing?” 

“Hanging in there, I think,” said Molly quizzically, wondering why he didn’t go ask Ron himself. She peered past him, but didn’t see Ron anywhere. 

“Oh, good.” His boss breathed a sigh of relief. “We were awfully worried, what with him catching dragon pox and all.” 

“...Dragon pox?” Ron had had that years ago, along with all of her children. He should be immune by now. 

“Yeah. He said he was feeling a little feverish this morning, and then by eleven he was covered in sores. So I sent him home for a few days, told him to get some rest and take as much time as he needs. Hillary sent him over some potion.” 

Molly nodded slowly. “That’s so kind of her. I’m sure he’ll be all right soon.” 

“I hope so.” Gordon shook her hand. “We miss him in the office. He does excellent work. Congratulations, again.” He went over to congratulate Harry. 

Molly turned away, fuming. She had half a mind to storm over to Ron’s place right now. Dragon pox! The nerve. That was a Skiving Snackbox, if she’d ever seen one. Why, if George worked at the Ministry she would be giving him a piece of her mind right now….

“Hey, is Ron here?” Harry showed up just then, as if he’d read her mind. “I haven’t seen him all day.” 

Molly nodded tersely. “Apparently he’s got his hands on a snackbox, because he’s home with a nasty case of dragon pox, according to his boss.” 

Harry shook his head. “He’s faking it?” He sounded unsure. 

“He had it as a child.” Molly took another sip of her drink. “He’s immune.” 

Harry’s brow furrowed. “Why would he do a thing like that?” 

“He’s probably avoiding Hermione.” 

“It’s that bad?” 

Molly nodded. 

“I heard my name?” Hermione popped up, her hair bouncy, perky from the flaming mixed drink now in her hand. “Mrs. Weasley! How are you?” She gave her a big hug. 

“Hermione! Doing well.” 

“Congrats on getting a piece of this one.” Hermione put her arm around Harry and flashed him a toothy grin, leaning precariously on him. It occurred to Molly that she might be a bit drunk. 

“How are things?” She asked. 

“Oh, wonderful, good, yes, everything is wonderful!” Hermione swayed. “Paralegal work is great, school is great, all great. So great.” 

“School?” 

“Yeah, I’m skipping class right now, actually.” She sounded giddy. “First time in my life! Can you believe it?” 

Molly glanced at her wristwatch, concerned. “It’s nine in the evening, dear.” 

Hermione nodded so strongly her whole body bent over a little bit. “Night school! Law school. Six hours a night. Two years, then my MBTPC, then pupillage, which is during the daytime, thank goodness. It’s great. Learn from the best!” She tried to give a thumbs up, but nearly spilled the drink in her left hand. 

“You’ve started graduate coursework?” Molly grinned. She and Arthur had never done so themselves, after leaving Hogwarts, but many of their friends had taken advantage of the Ministry’s extensive higher magical education offerings. 

“Six hours?” Harry looked like he had just finished doing the math. “How many hours a day are you a paralegal?” 

“Ten. Eleven.” Hermione shrugged. “Fourteen? Varies.” 

“And six hours of schoolwork on top of that? When do you sleep?” Harry looked aghast. 

Molly cut him off. “Oh, no, they’ve got time-turners.” She remembered her friend Dorothy, now Deputy Head of Budget, and how she had installed two special closets in her home—one for napping, the other for studying—when she did her masters in accounting. 

“Yeah, the time-turners are great!” Hermione sounded a little sarcastic. “Except we smashed all them. Remember that, Harry? Department of Mysteries? Good times. Now they just do school at night. God, I’m so jealous of third-year me.” Her head drooped onto her chest. 

“Goodness!” Molly’s eyes opened wide. “How do you concentrate?” 

“It’s all good,” said Hermione. “It’s easy, really. Easier than Hogwarts. It’s not like there’s much homework, at least. All self-contained classes.” She sounded mostly relieved, but Molly thought she detected a tinge of disappointment. 

“So...do you sleep?” Harry took a worried sip of his drink. 

Hermione waved her hand like it was nothing, but the deepening circles under her eyes told another story. “I sleep enough. A couple hours here, a couple hours there; I’ve discovered caffeine. And Sleepaway potion. Also sleeping potions. I’m managing!” 

“If you say so.” Harry looked unconvinced. “What sort of work are you doing?” 

“Work? As a paralegal, I’ve got four clients right now with Barrington. No, five.” Hermione counted off on her fingers, rocking back and forth on her heels. “Meetings in the day. School starts at five, classes right now in constitutional and administrative law, magical tort, magical equity and trust, criminal law. Over at 11. Paperwork for Barrington til that’s done. Barrington likes us in the office by eight.” 

“You make sure you’re getting enough rest now.” Molly fixed her with a stern glare, and Hermione stood still at once. “Take it from someone who never got a full night’s sleep while the children were little. When Arthur and I woke up the first day after Ginny went to Hogwarts, it was like meeting whole new people.” 

Hermione giggled like she didn’t know what to say. Her glass shook in her hand and tipped some flaming liquid onto her fingers, which flared up and out. She yelped in pain. 

“Oh—” Harry reached over and took her drink from her. “You okay? Let’s find you a napkin.” She nodded and let him lead her off. “Goodnight, Mrs. Weasley!” He said over his shoulder. “I mean, Mum!” He grinned. 

“Harry,” Molly heard Hermione say, “You’ve finally got a real family, now.” 

“Yeah, I have.” 

Molly clasped her drink free hand to her heart and melted a little inside. That was worth everything. 

Arthur came over then, his shoulders tensed up and his eyes shifty like he did when something was bothering him. 

“Arthur!” Molly grabbed his hand. This would cheer him up. “Harry just said he’s happy to have us for a real family. He’s not alone anymore.” 

“Wonderful! That’s very nice. Listen—Williamson just told me Ron’s got dragon pox.” 

Molly sighed. “He told me that, too.” 

“He can’t have dragon pox. They all had dragon pox. I remember how awful that was; we had to keep the kids at home for a month while they all got it in turn. They were constantly catching the furniture on fire when the spots popped.”

Molly looked about to make sure none of Ron’s coworkers were in earshot, and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I think it’s one of the candies the twins made.” 

“A Skiving Snackbox?” 

“Have they got any ones for dragon pox?” 

“I’m sure they do. I mean, they’ve got a Bubonic Bar; no one gets plague anymore. Why would Ron skip out on work like that?” 

Molly shook her head. “I don’t know, but I can tell you he’ll be getting a piece of my mind.” 

“Yeah.” Arthur sounded like he was raring to go. 

Molly turned her head to get a better look at him—he usually pushed back on her about things like this. “You think we should go yell at him?” 

“Yeah, I do.” Arthur downed the last of his muggle-firewhisky concoction like it was the only antidote to a poison. “This is unacceptable. Skiving off classes is one thing; work is completely different.” 

“Arthur, you fake sick days too.” 

Arthur shook his head. “That’s different. He hasn’t got seniority. Or kids. And, I’m worried about him. I don’t want him to fall into some sort of mood.” 

“Well.” Molly looked around the party, which was still in full swing. “Shall we drop by on the way home, make sure he goes into work tomorrow?” 

“Absolutely.” 

After another hour or so of mingling, Ginny started a game of Exploding Snap and Molly and Arthur decided that would be a good time to leave. They said their goodbyes and headed down to the atrium to apparate out. 

“Ready?” 

Molly nodded. They held out their wands and turned in unison, leaning into the uncomfortable sensation that was apparating. Molly closed her eyes and reopened them when she felt herself again on solid ground. Arthur was next to her, and they were in a dingy hallway somewhere in Diagon Alley. In the distance, she could hear a child wailing and a cat mewing loudly. Arthur looked at her. 

“Ready?” 

Molly nodded. 

Arthur rapped on the door while Molly fluffed the ruffles in her dress. The door opened, catching on the chain a few inches in. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Weasley!” Seamus sounded surprised to see them. He slammed the door, undid the chain, and thrust it wide open. “Are you here to see Ron?” 

“Mr. Finnegan!” Arthur gave his hand a jovial shake. “Yes. We heard he’s ill?” 

Molly peered past him into the small flat, which looked even smaller from all the rubbish and dirty clothes the boys had strewn about. She could see the back of Ron’s head on the couch. 

Seamus shook his head. “Yeah, dragon pox, apparently. Louis and I have set up shop in the bedroom; we’ve both had it but still. Nasty, dragon pox is.” 

“Not something you want to take chances with,” said Arthur colorlessly. 

“Well, come on in.” Seamus ushered them inside. “Tea? Firewhisky? Actually, I think we’re all out of tea. Water? Liquor?” 

“We’re fine, thank you.” Molly waved away his suggestions. 

“Right.” Seamus shrugged. “Hope Ron feels better soon. Nice seeing you, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. G’night, mate,” he said in the direction of the couch. Ron mumbled something in return. Seamus waved and disappeared through a beat up door. 

Molly stepped over a pile of moldering undershirts and squeezed past the tiny kitchen table into the corner of the little room that passed for a living room. There was an ancient couch, which looked like it had been rescued from the curb on more than one occasion; a leaking bean bag chair; and a wicker loveseat with just one cushion. Ron was on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, his skin flushed red and covered in spots. 

“Hello, Mum. Dad.” Ron coughed into his fist. 

_"Ronald Bilius Weasley—"_ Molly whisper-yelled as soon as Seamus and Louis had left. "Am I to understand that you lied to your workplace, took some of the twins' candy, and are imposing on the kindness of your roommates and coworkers, all to avoid seeing someone who used to be your best friend?" 

"I really am sick—" 

Molly glared at him and strode forward—he shrank back into his blanket at once. 

"Okay, Okay, I'm not! Don't be mad, Mum! It's just been really hard..." He sniffed and tugged the blanket tighter around him. 

Molly fixed him with her sternest look. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Arthur watching her admiringly. "You're a Weasley, Ronald. We work hard. We show up. We don't take handouts, and, for heaven's sake, we don't lie to people!" She could see the regret in his eyes, and it fueled her. He was listening, for once. "Tomorrow morning, this ends. Hillary's potion healed you, and you're going to buy her chocolates to thank her—full price chocolates; nice ones. You're going to go to work and you're going to do the job well and you're going to put your whole self into it." 

Ron mumbled something into the blanket. 

"What's that?" 

"I said I don't think I like work." 

Molly huffed. "Well, aren’t you special! Williamson says you make a good Auror. You're doing well. Don't throw that away." 

"Okay." 

"What's that? Speak up!" 

"I said okay!" Ron looked completely miserable. 

Molly crossed her arms, her speech over. After a moment Arthur crossed over to Ron. 

"I know this is really hard for you," he said gently. "Losing your job won't make things any better. Hermione's so busy, you might not even see her." 

"I could go on a work trip." 

"That you could." 

"Weatherby's putting together a crew to help organize a watch team in Reading; I could get on that." 

"That sounds like a good idea." 

"Okay." Ron folded the blanket down off his chest. "I'm going to be okay." It sounded like he was talking mostly to himself. 

"Of course you are." Molly's heart melted a little bit. "We love you, you know that?" 

"Yeah." But he smiled a little.

“But shape up.” Arthur could never manage to sound especially threatening, even when he was waving his finger in someone’s face. “You’ll feel better if you keep at it. Trust me.” 

“Yeah.” 

Arthur looked at his wristwatch, then at Molly. “I’ve got work tomorrow. Anything else you want to say to him?” 

Molly shook her head. “Goodnight, Ronny.” She got closer and gave him a kiss on the forehead, which felt dangerous even though she knew the hot pox spots were fake. “Come by for supper one weekend, won’t you?” 

“Sounds good.” Ron lolled his head away from her; he didn’t sound very committed to the idea. “G’night.” 

Molly backed up a few steps into the living area, where Arthur was moving aside some piles of dirty clothes to clear space for them to apparate. Ron looked awfully down. She hated to see any of her children sad like this. 

She and Arthur turned simultaneously into nothingness, and after an unpleasant moment of wooshing and being unnaturally stretched, popped back into the distance a few feet from the Burrow. It looked dark and practically abandoned; Molly had left just one light on. 

Arthur put his arm around her. “Home, sweet home.” He opened the door for her, then turned on the lights. 

Molly gasped. _“FRED!”_ The little ghost baby had torn open the pantry and spilled open every container she had in there. He was crouched in the middle, blowing on a pile of rice to scatter it all around. He looked up at the sound of his name, and Molly swore his eyes lit up. 

_“MAMA!”_ He flew at her, baby arms outstretched, overshot, and went right through her like a flash flood in a creek bed. Molly laughed and turned around; he levitated himself into her arms and snuggled there. “Mama.” 

Molly hugged him and rubbed her chin against his barely-there hair. “Mama’s here, Freddy. Oh, I love you. Don’t leave me again, will you?” 

Arthur’s eyes were glistening. He reached out to Fred, who grabbed his finger in a tiny ghost fist and bit it, grinning. “See?” He said to Molly, or maybe to himself. “He came back.” 

“He came back,” Molly whispered, feeling like it was the most beautiful sentence in the world. “Fred came back.” She looked around at the mess he had made of her pantry, but it looked like a work of art with the baby in her arms. “I don’t ever want to clean it up,” she whispered, and smiled.


	14. The Housing Crisis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron makes a terrible roommate. Hermione has set up camp under her desk and is refusing to come out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longest chapter yet! :) This one clocks in at nearly 7k words lol; I'm never sure quite how to rope off chapters. There's a lot going on here but it felt like one piece. (My average is 1k-3k, for comparison).

For the next few weeks, everything settled into a new rhythm. The Weasleys barely saw Ginny, who spent most of her free time at Grimmauld Place, or with her team once practice started back up. Ron never dropped by, but there was no more news from his boss. 

Each morning Molly and Arthur would wake up to find baby ghost Fred between them, eyes open, waiting patiently for them to wake up. Molly would make breakfast while he trailed behind her, dumping over every container she opened, and Arthur would follow behind him cleaning everything up. 

In the day, Molly might visit Andromeda Tonks to see baby Ted, or have a friend over for tea. Then in the evening once Arthur got home the three would gather in the sitting room and listen to the radio. Arthur would give Fred that morning’s Daily Prophet, which he would shred in his little ghost teeth. Then they would get ready for bed. If Ginny came home, it would be crashing in with mud all over her Quidditch gear well after nightfall. 

One Sunday morning, while Arthur was out back working on the campervan, Molly got quite a shock when Harry’s head popped up in the fireplace. 

“Hello?” He shouted into the empty sitting room. “Mum?” 

Molly came running, tripping over floorboards in her haste, shivers overtaking her. It was like the last year and a half hadn’t happened and she was suddenly in the war again, waiting to evacuate any minute, and someone was calling to report the latest people killed. “Yes?” She burst into the living room to see Harry’s head in the embers. “Harry! Is Ginny okay? What’s the matter?” 

“Nothing! We’re okay,” he sputtered. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Weasley; I didn’t mean to make you worried.” 

Molly realized her uncombed hair must look wild, along with the water dripping off the spatula she had forgotten to put down. She ran a wet hand through her hair, and tried to steady her breathing. 

“I just wanted to ask if it was okay for me to pop over and talk with you about something.” Harry’s head was already red in the flames, but she could have sworn his face got even more flushed. “I wasn’t sure if you were busy.” 

Molly shook her head, trying to sound like her heart wasn’t still beating a million miles a minute. “We’re not busy. Come any time. Is everything okay?” 

“Oh, yeah. It’s not an emergency. I just...need your advice, about someone.” 

Molly nodded. “Come right over, dear. I’ll see what I can do.” She smiled encouragingly. 

“Thanks,” said Harry’s head, and then he disappeared, leaving just the fire. 

Molly turned back to the kitchen, where baby ghost Fred greeted her from the sink. He laughed and swooped below the bubbles, making them multiply more and more. She grabbed the top of a chair to steady herself, and relaxed a little bit. Everything was okay. Ginny and Harry weren’t in any danger; Fred was here with her. Everything was okay. 

A loud pop sounded from the Floo Network, and Molly turned around but was surprised to see Seamus instead of Harry, standing in the middle of the sitting room covered in ash and blinking at her. 

“Er, Mrs. Weasley!” He half-heartedly patted his robes like he wanted to get the dust off but was afraid to brush it onto her floor. “Sorry to barge in on you like this.” 

“That’s okay,” said Molly, once she had recovered her initial shock. “What’s wrong? Can I offer you some tea?” 

“Yeah, tea’d be brilliant. Awful sorry to bother you. Louis and I just wanted to talk to you about something, and I lost the coin toss.” 

“What about?” Molly led him into the kitchen. He seemed hesitant to step onto her clean floors, so she performed a helpful vacuuming spell on his robes. She pointed her wand and started the kettle again. 

“Er...well…” 

“Have a seat?” She gestured to the bench. 

“Thanks.” He took a seat, looking like he wasn’t sure what to make of baby ghost Fred, who was levitating in front of him now and blowing bubbles in his face. He tried popping one. Fred giggled and zoomed away. 

“What’s this about?” Molly took a seat across from him. “I don’t mean to rush you, but I’m expecting Harry any minute.” 

“Er, yeah. Well.” Seamus cleared his throat. “Louis and I were wondering if Ron could move back in with you and Mr. Weasley.” 

“What?” Molly realized she probably sounded a bit harsher than she had intended. The kettle began to shriek and rattle behind her. 

“He’s lovely!” Seamus scrunched up part of the table runner in his hand and clutched it nervously. “It’s just that, well, for one thing he’s refusing to put on clothes.” 

Molly got up to pour the tea, but her hands were shaking and she sloshed scalding water all over the counter. _“Tersus,”_ she muttered. The water zipped up into her wand and she poured the remainder into mugs for her and Seamus. She added tea leaves and set Seamus’ mug in front of him. “He’s not wearing clothes?” 

“Not like he’s not wearing _anything,”_ Seamus hastened to clarify. He grabbed the tea reflexively and took a sip, sputtering and setting it down when he realized it wasn’t ready yet. “He’s just wrapped in a comforter all the time, and he won’t put anything else on. He even wears it out of the house. We dragged him over to Harry’s, just to get him out of the flat for once, and he wore the comforter there.” 

“He’s worn it to work?” 

“Er, no.” Seamus held the mug and gazed into its depths, willing it to finish steeping. “He’s still got the pox. It should be gone by now. Louis even offered to pay for a Healer, but he won’t go. Says he’s a big believer in homeopathic remedies and Healers are just quacks who’ll mess him up.” 

“That doesn’t sound like Ron at all.” Molly felt her face growing hot on her son’s behalf. “So he hasn’t been to work in weeks?” 

“No.” 

Molly gripped the handle of her mug so tight it cracked. 

Seamus’ eyes flew open in alarm. “Well, because of him being sick; I’m sure he would have gone otherwise.” 

“Right. That.” 

“We just thought...well, you’ve seen it, you remember?” He waved a hand, demonstrating. “The flat’s tiny. I mean, it’s a one bedroom place, and we’ve got the three of us stacked in there. And he just won’t get out of the living room. He’s just always on the couch, moaning and complaining, and he’s covered in these disgusting boils. We hate to ask you, but we thought that since you have a bigger house, maybe you could just stick him somewhere out of sight til he gets better?” 

Molly took a deep, shuddering breath. “Yep. We’ll take care of it.” She forced herself to smile at Seamus. “Don’t you worry. Arthur and I will have him all sorted out by evening.” 

“Thanks.” Seamus gulped his tea down. “Again, we’re awfully sorry to bother you. He’s lovely, really; a good friend of mine.” 

“Oh, no; he’s behaving horribly. No need to apologize.” In the reflection in the glass cabinet behind him, Molly saw a figure on a broomstick come to land out the front window. “Aha, that must be Harry. He wants my advice on something, too. Probably how to break up with Ginny.” 

Seamus looked shocked. 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.” Molly took a sip of tea to wash away the bitter taste in her mouth. “That’s a terrible thing to say. I’m just tired.” 

“Right. Erm...I’ll just be going then, shall I?” Seamus stood up and swallowed the rest of the tea, coughing a bit when some of the leaves got into his mouth. “Thanks for the tea, and er, the help.” 

“Anytime.” Molly stood and smoothed her apron, helping him back into the sitting room. “Now, don’t you worry about Ron. You just leave him to me and Arthur.” 

“Right. Thanks.” Seamus stepped into the fireplace. “So sorry to bother you, again.” 

She shook her head. “It’s nothing.” 

He was gone in a green flash just as Harry rang the front bell. 

Molly took a moment to steady herself, then went and let Harry in. She put on a smile. 

“Harry.” She gave him a hug. “How are you?” 

“Good.” He looked distracted. “Can I...er...may I come in?” 

“Of course.” Molly stepped aside. “Tea?” 

“No, thanks.” Harry took a seat at the table. 

Molly looked around for baby ghost Fred, wondering if now was going to be the moment of truth as far as Harry was concerned, but he had sunk below the bubbles like a crocodile, just his little eyes visible. They were fixed on her and he was blowing bubbles in and out of his mouth. She sat down across from Harry in the seat Seamus had just vacated, facing Fred. “What’s wrong, dear?” 

“Er...well.” Harry looked at the table, and for a brief second Molly thought he really might be about to ask her something about Ginny, and her heart shook in place. “This is sort of embarrassing. And I know, things are a little awkward with her and you lot, because of, er, the thing with Ron and her, but still. Well, you’re a Mum, and you know these things, right?” She relaxed. He wanted to talk about Hermione. 

“None of us are upset with Hermione,” she said, laying a soothing hand on the table. Fred shook his head amid the bubbles behind Harry, and she felt a pang of longing as she wondered for a brief second if he could understand what they were saying. “Except Ron, of course, but he’ll get over it. It’s not like they were together very long.” She took a sip of tea. 

“True.” Harry raised his eyebrows like he hadn’t considered that yet. 

“But Hermione?” 

“Yes. Well.” Harry cleared his throat. “I think she’s...erm...I think she’s sort of gone homeless.” 

Molly received her second great shock of the day. “Pardon?” 

“Ginny and I went to surprise her at her flat the other day. It’s a Muggle flat, right, so you can imagine the look on their faces when it was us in Quidditch and Auror robes and this Muggle couple opens the door and there we are, grinning and holding a pie. We thought it might be her relatives at first, but they’d never heard of her and slammed the door, so we had to call in a friend from the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes to come obliviate them.” Harry looked at the table. “May I have a pumpkin juice, actually? If you’ve got any?” 

“Of course. There ought to be some in the pantry; help yourself.” Molly gestured. 

“Thanks.” Harry got up and returned a moment later, magicking the cap off a dusty bottle. He sat back down and took a swig. “Anyhow, I went and asked Hermione what was going on, and she said she’s stopped renting her flat to save money because she was never there.” 

Molly’s brow creased in concern. “Where is she living?” 

Harry sighed, exasperated. “In her office, apparently. She’s working all the time, and when she’s not working she’s at school, and when she’s not doing either she’s studying, even though Draco’s in her class too and he says they’re not given much homework.” 

“Draco’s in her class?” Molly tilted her head. 

“Yeah; I dunno what he expects to do with his future, but apparently he figured he might as well study magical law in the meantime, what with his father’s trial going on and all.” 

“What’s he think of her living arrangement?” 

“Well, I’m not sure he knew about it. Seems like she’s been hiding it from everybody. He looked sort of worried when I mentioned it and I think they might’ve got into a bit of a row as I was leaving.” 

“Uh-huh.” Molly looked down into her tea. “How can I help?” 

“Could you talk to her?” Harry was fiddling with the rim of his pumpkin juice. He sneaked a look at her. “I’d like her to have a bed to come home to, at least. She’s working herself to death over there. Ginny says she feels guilty about the breakup and she’s punishing herself to get over it.” 

“Guilty?” Molly looked up sharply. “Why should she feel guilty? She hasn’t done a thing wrong.” 

Harry shrugged. “I dunno. I don’t see it really; that’s just what Ginny said. But you know how Hermione is. She doesn’t listen to advice and she hates being told what to do. And she’s probably got a point, that she wasn’t spending much time at the flat for how much she was paying for it, since it’s Muggle money from her savings and she hasn’t got a Muggle job to make more of it.” He paused, and his mouth opened in horror. “Oh God. D’you reckon she’ll do that next?” 

“No. I’ll talk to her,” Molly said, trying to make her voice sound soothing. “Should we convince her to take a magical flat?” 

“No, I don’t think she will. I thought maybe we could convince her to come stay at Grimmauld Place. Y’know; just to have a place that’s not work so she can clear her head a little. I think it’d make a big difference.” 

Molly nodded. “Yeah; it would.”

A loud crash rang out from the living room. “Honey, I’m home!” 

Molly smiled. “That’ll be Arthur. If you’ll excuse me…” 

“Of course.”

Molly eased herself off the bench and met Arthur in the doorway. He wore coveralls spattered in grease from fiddling with the campervan, but he greeted her with a kiss and an embrace. Mid-hug, her heart sank as she remembered what it was she had to tell him. 

“Arthur,” she said, leaning back and fixing him with a serious look, “I have bad news.” 

“What is it, Mollywobbles?” He grinned at her, still holding her amorously. 

_“Arthur, we have company,”_ she hissed, jerking her head in the direction of the kitchen. 

“Oh. Sorry. Hello, Harry!” He waved at him over her shoulder before looking back at her, lowering his voice. “What is it, Molly?” 

“It’s Ron,” she whispered. “Seamus came by this morning. Says Ron’s still sick.” 

“You mean...all these weeks…?” 

Molly nodded. 

Arthur sucked in his breath and looked at the ceiling. “Merlin’s beard. Well.” 

There was a loud clatter from the kitchen as Harry knocked over something, probably his pumpkin juice. Molly started, wondering if he had seen baby ghost Fred. 

“What should we do?” Arthur asked. 

“I don’t know.” Molly shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know what to do with him. Seamus asked if he could move back in with us. Says he’s been a right nuisance.” 

Arthur let out a hollow laugh. “I can imagine.” 

They stared into space past each other for a moment. 

“Want me to go sort him out?” Arthur offered.

“Could you?” Molly gazed into his eyes. 

“Yeah. I’ll go get him.” There was an edge to Arthur’s voice, a quiet fury she rarely saw in him. She shuddered with pleasure. 

“You’re wonderful.” She gave him a smacking kiss on the lips. 

He smiled a little. “You too. I’ll be back?” 

“You will.” She winked at him and squeezed his hand, then they parted, him back to the fireplace and her to the kitchen to rejoin Harry. “Right,” she said. “Shall we go?” 

Harry nodded. “Mind if we fly?” 

Molly hated flying, and she said so. The Weasleys were starting to run a bit low on Floo Powder, so they agreed to apparate instead. In a moment they were in the Ministry Atrium, which seemed somehow even more silent and empty than it had the other night, even with sun streaming through the fake windows. 

“Have yeh got badges? Oh, hello, Potter.” An Auror looked up from behind the security desk, where he was reading a copy of _The Quibbler._ “What brings you in on a Saturday?” 

“Hello, Wiggins. Bit of extra work.” 

“This your guest?” Wiggins raised his eyebrows at Molly. 

“Yeah; this is Molly Weasley.” 

“Molly Weasley?” Wiggins inclined his head, impressed, and rose to shake her hand as they passed the desk. “You killed Bellatrix Lestrange?” 

“I did,” said Molly, standing a little taller.

“Good on yeh.” 

Molly smirked to herself, and she and Harry went on towards the lift. It started jangling upwards. The silence got awkward. 

“How’s work?” She ventured. 

“Good,” said Harry. 

“Okay.” 

The lift clanged to a halt. _“Department of Magical Law Enforcement,”_ it purred. They stepped off. 

Hermione’s little office was opposite the gleaming Auror office and down the hall from Arthur’s converted broom closet. 

They came around the corner and heard voices coming from inside. 

“I don’t care; I am not moving in with you!” Hermione sounded exasperated and on the verge of tears. Someone else said something in a low, comforting rumble. “Okay,” she said. “Yeah, I know. All right.” A pause, while the other person spoke. “Right. I’ll catch you later. Bye.” 

The door opened, and Draco Malfoy came out, stopping in his tracks upon seeing Harry and Molly. He looked haggard and exhausted. His hair, which had always been gelled as a boy, looked like it had dried out and gone through some sort of tornado. 

“Hallo, Draco,” said Harry as casually as if he weren’t greeting the boy he, Ron, and Hermione had complained about all through their school years. Molly looked at him in surprise. “Did you talk to her?” 

He threw up his hands in defeat. “She’s under her desk, like you said. Pillow and everything.” 

“I can hear you, you know.” Hermione’s muffled voice floated out of the door. 

“Sorry,” said Draco over his shoulder. He looked at Harry and mouthed, “Your turn?” 

Harry shrugged and nodded. 

Draco gave him a fist bump as they walked past each other. “Good luck,” he whispered, rolling his green eyes. Harry gave him a thumbs up. 

“This is great,” Harry whispered to Molly as they went in. “Now I get to be the lesser of two evils.” He pushed open the door, and at first Molly didn’t see anything among the piles of books and sheaves of parchment. The room seemed to have a climate that rained paper, as it covered every available surface. Crumpled-up essays littered the floor. 

“Over here,” said a grouchy voice. They walked around the little balls of discarded essay to find Hermione, curled up inside a sleeping bag under the desk, quill in hand, writing an essay on the floor. She did not look happy to see them. “Nice to see you, Mrs. Weasley. So Harry’s telling everyone I’m homeless, now, is he?” 

“Not everyone.” Harry squatted down and took a seat on her level. After casting about for a suitable handhold, Molly eased herself down too. 

Hermione blew a stray hair out of her eyes. “Well, I’m not. I’m investing in my future, and as you can see, I’m very busy right now. This essay on magical property inheritance tax won’t write itself.” She scratched out her last sentence. 

“Hermione.” Harry tried to look her in the eyes, but she studiously avoided his gaze. “We’re worried about you. Are you okay?” 

Hermione’s lip quivered, and suddenly she burst into tears, shoving her half-finished essay aside to protect it. 

Molly scooted over and rubbed her shoulders. “There, there,” she said. “Let’s get you out from under this desk.” 

Hermione shook her head vigorously and sobbed harder, her whole body shaking, like a toddler refusing a nap. 

“C’mon. You need some sleep. Come back to the Burrow with us and I’ll make you some tea and you can have a nice, refreshing break.” 

“I can’t take a break!” She spat, her face red from crying. “If I take a break, I won’t pass, and I’ll lose my job, and I won’t have any work experience, and I won’t get a degree, and I won’t get a job, and I won’t get to stay in the magical world, and I’ll have to go home, and there’s nothing for me at home because I OBLIVIATED it and sent it to AUSTRALIA!” 

“Hermione…” Harry stared at her, wide-eyed. 

She wailed and buried her face in Molly’s knee. Molly patted her hair, not sure what else to do. 

“No one’s going to kick you out of the magical world,” said Molly after a minute. “That’s not how things work around here. You saved it.” 

Hermione’s crying slowed down just a touch. “But what if I can’t afford to live in it?” Her voice was thick and strained. 

“You can come live with me,” Harry said, leaning over and patting her awkwardly on the shoulder. “You can always live with me. I don’t care if you have money. You can hang out with Kreacher and write a book or something.” 

Hermione sat up slowly, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. “Thanks, Harry.” She sniffed and took a deep breath. 

“Would you like some water?” Molly asked. Hermione nodded. _“Accio. Aguamenti.”_ Molly summoned a cup off the desk, filled it to the brim and handed it to her. 

“Thanks.” Hermione took a sip, closing her eyes and savoring it. “Did you know, Draco said I could come live with him too?” She chuckled, unsure, somewhere between amused and derisive. “In Malfoy Manor. I could never.” 

“Really? Yeah, I never want to go back there either.” 

“It was nice of him to offer. A little tone-deaf, but…” 

“I’ll say.” Molly couldn’t keep her mouth shut. Hermione and Harry both turned to look at her, and their eyes seemed to burn on her a little. “Draco’s one thing, but living with Lucius Malfoy?” 

Hermione shrugged. “Lucius is probably going to stay in Azkaban; he hasn’t got a great case. I don’t think Draco figures he’d be there.” 

“He hasn’t got a good case? Why not?” Harry tried to sound nonchalant. 

Hermione raised her eyebrows, but her eyes were starting to twinkle again. “He’s guilty, Harry. We knew that already.” 

Molly felt a wave of relief to hear Hermione say that. She hadn’t realized she was that hung up over Hermione’s defense of Lucius Malfoy. Perhaps Arthur had been right all along and it was upsetting her more than she realized, on some level. “Definitely,” she added. “He killed my brothers, you know.” 

Hermione turned to look at her, her eyes wide. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know that, actually.” 

“Well.” Molly wasn’t sure what she had expected. 

Hermione shifted to sit more comfortably and took another drink of water. “I can’t say I’m surprised. I mean, I wouldn’t put it past him. He’s been perfectly awful in the consultations.” 

“Has he, now?” Molly tilted her head, looking at Hermione with interest. 

She nodded. “I mean, he gets brought in by the dementors, right, because they still have them working as guards— _which they shouldn’t—”_ (her eyes flashed and her hair seemed to grow bushier) “—so he starts off pretty depressed. But then he’ll warm up and be all polite and what he probably thinks is charming, but then by the end of it he’s snapping at everyone and Narcissa is in tears and Draco’s all angry, and sometimes I think they’re glad to see him hauled off again. I mean, they’re a very close-knit family, but he can’t seem to take responsibility for what he did himself so he’ll lash out at them, or me. And you know how Draco has always worshipped his father, so it must be a lot to take.” 

“Yeah.” Harry was leaning forward. “He idolizes him.” 

Hermione rolled her eyes up to look at the ceiling. “Well, he did. I don’t think watching him walk around wandless for a year, bowing and scraping to Voldemort’s every whim exactly did wonders for their relationship.” 

“It’s not like Draco ever lifted a finger to stop him,” interjected Harry. 

“There’s that, too.” Hermione shrugged, nonchalantly, but Molly noticed she seemed to bristle a bit. “He did help the prisoners in the basement, though. He’d bring Luna food, check on Neville.” 

“Oh, that’s very brave,” said Harry sarcastically. “That’s right on a level with, with Ron trying to save you, or you standing up to Bellatrix, or Luna winding up their prisoner in the first place. Real brave.” Molly raised her eyebrows at him. Maybe he wasn’t so forgiving and well-adjusted as he tried to appear. 

Hermione’s eyes flashed. “It was brave.” She set the cup down on the floor. “Thanks for coming to check on me, Harry, Mrs. Weasley. I think I’ll be all right now.” 

“Are you sure?” Molly asked. “Come back with us for the afternoon and take a nap. You must be exhausted.” 

Hermione shook her head. There was an edge to her voice now. “I’ll be fine. I can nap here.” 

Taking her cue, Harry and Molly stood up to leave. Harry tried one last tack. 

“Come to Grimmauld Place,” he said. “You can study all night if you want to, but you’d be at a home and not here.” 

Hermione looked at him but didn’t deign to answer. Harry turned on his heel and left. Molly looked from one to the other, and said a quick farewell to Hermione. 

“Bye,” she said, but she sounded cold. Molly followed Harry back out into the hallway. 

“That went well,” he said as soon as they were out of earshot, his voice dripping with sarcasm. 

“It didn’t?” Molly said, walking quickly to keep up with Harry’s fast strides. “I rather felt we got through to her on a few points.” 

“She’s angry. She probably won’t talk to me for weeks.” 

Harry turned on his heel and vanished into thin air in a spot far sooner than Molly knew it was possible. She was a little wary of the Ministry’s anti-apparating defenses herself, so she rode the lift down to the Atrium before vanishing herself back to the Burrow. 

The sun was at its midpoint when she re-appeared, and the rushes waved lazily in the early November breeze. Molly shivered a bit under her knitted shawl, and made a mental note to start wearing heavier fabrics outdoors. She took her time getting back from the road to the house. The door stuck a little when she opened it, and the little bells and charms on it jangled merrily as she entered. Hearing voices, she pulled off her boots and walked into the sitting room. 

Ron was on the couch, and he looked terrible. At first Molly thought he might still be taking Dragon Delights, but then she looked closer and realized he no longer had any of the characteristic hot boils. His skin was splotchy red, and eyebrows were abnormally bushy, and his lips were as swollen as if they had been inflated. She rushed forward. 

“Ron, are you okay?” 

“He’s fine,” said Arthur, who was standing by the couch, arms folded over his chest. 

“Well, we think so; we’ll see.” George was kneeling next to Ron, sweeping his wand over him like a probe. Ron was also attended by Harry, staring intently at the scene before him from an ancient armchair, and Ginny, who was perched on a wobbly stool in her Quidditch robes, home for a quick lunch. She had a carton of ice cream on her lap and the remains of a sandwich on a plate next to her. 

“What’s happened?” Molly took up vigil with George by the couch. 

“I took a lot of Dragon Delights.” Ron sounded pain-free, but it was odd to see his voice coming out of a pair of gigantic lips. 

“He’s our first case of prolonged exposure, actually.” George pocketed his wand. “Ron, roll your sleeve up, will you?” Ron obeyed, shaking back his robes to reveal an arm so patchy and red it looked like he might have gotten scales tattooed on. “Took two Dragon Delights every morning and evening for four weeks, apparently, and twice that on the weekends.” 

“I didn’t want to let down Seamus,” said Ron. 

“Ron.” Molly shook her head. She felt waves of disappointment washing over her. “Ronald. Why did you do it?” 

“I needed space to figure out my passions,” said Ron. “I hate being an Auror.” 

“Yeah, well, the thing is the cure side of the pill was really only meant for one dose, delivered over an hour,” said George, who was prodding Ron’s arms with his fingertips. “Fred and I never even thought of this possibility. Which makes Ron a real idiot, because we thought of everything the normal idiots might think of.” He sat back on his heels. “I’ll need to brew you a potion, I think. It’ll have to be stronger than the ones we used to infuse the candies. I might need to consult with Slughorn.” 

“Ron,” said Molly, slowly crossing her arms in anticipation of not liking his answer, “have you really been laid up on your couch for four weeks, pretending to be sick, doing absolutely nothing?” 

“I haven’t been doing nothing,” Ron snapped. “In fact…” he drew himself up on the pillows a bit and got a smug expression on his face. “I’ve started a rock band.” 

“Oh, no,” said Arthur. 

“Hey, that’s cool!” said Ginny. “Have you got any songs yet?” 

“Loads.” Ron ran a hand through his hair, then stopped halfway through. “’Course, we haven’t sung any of them yet. We’re still waiting on a vocalist.” 

“We?” Ginny took a bite of her ice cream, grinning. “So who all’s in this band of yours?” 

“It’s me and Kreacher, at the moment.” 

_“Kreacher?”_ Harry’s eyes bugged out. Ginny about fell off her stool laughing. 

“Yeah.” Ron crossed his arms. “Don’t laugh. We’re pretty good. I do guitar, he’s on percussion. We’ve got a bass drum and we’ve got a tambourine. He hates me, but he does it.” 

Harry shook his head and barked a laugh. “I have so many questions.” 

“Like that?” Ron glared at him. 

“Like why Kreacher, for starters?” 

“No one else was available during the day.” 

“Of course they weren’t!” Molly interjected, her voice sounding unusually shrill when it left her mouth. “They were all at work. Remember what that is?” 

“Question two,” Harry cut in before the shouting could really begin. “Since when do you play the guitar?” 

Ron looked pleased with himself. “Since never, but after a month of straight practicing I’m proud to say I do.” 

“I have a question.” Ginny raised her hand. “Has your band got a name?” 

“Well, not entirely.” Ron unfolded his arms long enough to hug a pillow in front of his knees. “Kreacher’s not exactly the creative type, so he’s not been great for bouncing names off of.” 

“Well, what’ve you got?” 

“A few.” Ron spread his hands and announced, with relish, _“The Weird Brothers.”_

Ginny shook her head. “Derivative.” She plunged her spoon back into the carton of ice cream. 

_“House Elf Liberation Nation.”_

“Kreacher doesn’t want to be liberated,” said Harry, his brow furrowed. “I mean, I should know. We’ve had loads of conversation about it.” 

“Yeah, but I thought it would impress Hermione. You remember SPEW?” 

Harry snorted. “I hate to break it to you, mate, but Hermione’s not the sort of girl you’re going to win back by being in a band.” 

_“SPEW Me to the Moon,_ that’s another band title idea,” said Ron, continuing as if he hadn’t heard him. “Or _Kreachers of the Night._ But Kreacher doesn’t like that one.” 

“Yeah, I wouldn’t go with that when half your band hates it.” Ginny was licking her spoon dry, barely able to contain her smirk. 

“Well, I have other ideas!” Ron clutched the pillow tighter to his chest. “How about Something with _Weasley_ in it. _Ron Weasley and the Gents.”_

“Nah.” Ginny had her mouth full again. 

_“Ron Weasley and the Spigots.”_

“What the hell’s a Spigot?” Arthur advanced from the corner, his arms crossed. “Listen, Ron, you can’t quit your Auror job just to work on this. Williamson is worried sick about you. What happened to getting your act together? What happened to the work trip to Reading?” 

Ron shrugged. “Weatherby didn’t want me on the team. And it just got me thinking about what I really want from a job.” 

“Like what?” Harry leaned forward, his eyes curious, intent. 

“Well, we cleaned up Hogwarts, and that mattered, that was important. But that’s done now, and they’ve got me doing paperwork on the house visits. It all seemed so pointless. Being an Auror was supposed to be about fighting Dark Wizards, not bringing them biscuits and pretending to be their friends so we can try and catch them on enough evidence to bring them to trial. Besides, the only point of me being an Auror was to impress Hermione, because she thought I didn’t have enough ambition. If she won’t even date me, what am I still doing in the job?” 

“You’re getting paid,” Molly snapped. 

Ron rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, I could also get paid doing something I love.” 

“Like music?” There was a knife-sharp edge to Molly’s voice. 

“Yeah. Tom at the Leaky Cauldron says we can play, as soon as we book a vocalist. We can get tips from the audience.” 

“Tips?” Molly shuddered. “I thought Quidditch was what you loved. Why don’t you go professional, like Ginny?” 

“Because let’s face it, I’m rubbish,” said Ron. “I was the laughingstock of Hogwarts, remember? I got better, but I’m not good enough for a real team. Besides, I can love more than one thing.” 

“Hey, Hogwarts is a real team,” said Harry defensively. 

Ginny snorted and then caught Harry looking at her. “Oh yeah, it totally is!” She nodded so fast her long hair bounced into her ice cream. She quickly swept it out.

A tiny pale orange shape crawled around from the side of the couch then, directly into George’s line of sight. Molly froze and looked helplessly at Arthur, who looked similarly nervous. Ron was already causing enough friction; what would George meeting the ghost of his twin brother do? George was already looking Fred’s way. 

“Hey there,” he said, bending down to high-five baby ghost Fred, whose hand went right through his. George turned to look at Molly, whose face wore an expression of shock. “Ron’s introduced me to his subconscious projection here.” 

“He’s helping me get over Hermione,” said Ron, from the couch. “I’m through all the baby names I actually liked. This is Charline, today. In case Charlie never has kids.” 

“Has he...has the baby...been with you the whole time at the flat?” Arthur asked, his voice quivering a bit. 

“Nah.” Ron threw his arm over his eyes. 

“Yeah, you missed it when the baby came in,” said George. “Ron threw a fit.” 

“It’s because I thought I was over her, and then this shows up and brings it all flooding back.” 

“Right.” Molly breathed easy again. 

“Hey there, little Ron,” said George. “I’m George, remember?” 

Baby ghost Fred leaned back on his haunches and shrieked, “FWED!” 

George blanched, but then he laughed and crouched down to the baby’s level. 

“I’m not Fred, I’m George,” he said, moving his long hair to uncover the hole where his ear used to be. “See? I haven’t got my ear; that’s how you can tell.” He winked. 

Baby ghost Fred’s eyes got wide. “GEOWGE!” 

“That’s right!” George grinned. “I’m George!” 

The ghost baby began to bounce up and down, flapping his little arms. “FWED! FWED! FWED!” 

“No, I’m George. G-E-O—Ron, have you taught your subconscious how to spell yet?” 

“FWED!!” Baby ghost Fred launched himself into the air and zoomed into George’s arms, curling up there like a newborn. George looked down, a little uncomfortable. 

“That’s great. But this is sort of weird, Ron.” He tipped baby ghost Fred out of his arms. “It’s funny how you can actually hold him; he’s a bit solid, isn’t he. Is that how you knew he was a projection and not a ghost?” 

“Nah, I just didn’t know any dead babies.” 

Molly glanced around the room to see how Harry and Ginny were taking baby ghost Fred. Ginny took a big bite of ice cream and swallowed it, slowly, choking a bit on the way down. She set her carton and spoon aside. 

“Harry, if we ever break up, I’m haunting you.” 

“We’re not breaking up.” Harry chuckled, but except for a nervous darting glance his eyes stayed on baby ghost Fred. 

“Yeah, well, if you leave me, or hurt me, or whatever, I’m funneling my anger into a projection. No babies for me. I’ll be like a giant mosquito on a broomstick. Just swooping down on it when you least expect it, going—” Ginny scratched her hands into claws and made a face like she was gnawing on something, “RAWR! You broke my heart and now I vill suck your blood!” 

Harry laughed. 

Ginny picked her ice cream back up and took a dainty little bite. “You gonna haunt me?” 

Harry shook his head. “I won’t need to. You’ll be back in my arms as soon as you give it a second thought.” 

Ginny grinned, and the ring on her finger morphed quickly into a little metal heart which squeezed itself around her finger, hugging it. A cuckoo bird came rocketing out of the wristwatch on her other hand just then, letting out ear splitting chirps. Ginny looked down at it. 

“Hey, that’s me,” she said, getting up and starting to take her carton and plate back into the kitchen. “Afternoon practice time.” She gave Harry a peck on the lips as she passed him, and everyone else got a single, swooping wave. “It’s been lovely,” she drawled. “Catch you later.” 

“I’m going to head out too,” said Harry. “I’ve got to go have a long talk with Kreacher about this music business.” He cast a meaningful look at Ron. 

George announced he, too, had to get back to the joke shop. “Don’t take anything, and I mean anything.” He glared at Ron as he stood up. “No potions, no homeopathic remedies, and _definitely_ no Skiving Snackboxes. I’ll let you know tomorrow what Slughorn says once I’ve asked him about your outlook. Bye, little Ron. That’s...that’s still weird. Okay.” Baby ghost Fred had just floated himself into George’s arms again and given him a little hug around the neck. George patted the baby awkwardly on the back and stepped away. 

“Are we letting Ron stay here, then?” said Molly at last, to Arthur. 

He nodded. “Ron, go to your room. Just…” He finished the sentence with an exasperated sigh. “Molly, care to accompany me on a walk?” 

“That would be brilliant.” 

Arthur joined her by the door, where everyone was filing out one by one—Ginny and Harry by broomstick, George by the Floo Network, until only Ron was left on the couch. He took his own sweet time before heading up to his childhood bedroom.


	15. Ron Weasley and the Spigots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione excuses herself from the Malfoy case on “ethical grounds.” Ron drafts Luna to join his band.

“You’ll never guess what’s happened,” said Arthur by way of greeting one night as he apparated into the vegetable garden after work. 

“Hello to you too,” said Molly, tossing a gnome over the wall and straightening up to look at him. She squinted in the light of the orb she had charmed to illuminate the garden. “What happened?” 

“I told you, you have to guess.” Arthur’s eyes danced merrily and he took a seat on the little stone wall, hands in his lap, looking for all the world like a nine-year-old child. 

“Rosemary broke another law?” 

“No. Although yes, as a matter of fact, but she didn’t get caught this time. But guess again.” 

“Ron’s back to work!” Now her eyes were shining. 

“Er...no.” Arthur fiddled with a weed. “Or if he is, I didn’t see him there.” 

Molly groaned. It was Wednesday now, and Ron had had one job that week—go back to work. Instead, he was apparently roaming about as he pleased. She and Arthur had agreed to try giving him the silent treatment. 

“Another guess?” Arthur looked hopeful. 

“Oh, all right.” Molly hated guessing games. “You got a promotion!” 

“Nope, wrong again.” 

“Just tell me?” 

“Hermione has recused herself from the Malfoy case!” 

Molly dropped her trowel. “What?” 

Arthur stood up, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “She’s off it! It’s the talk of the floor. She’s excused herself on ‘ethical grounds,’ and everyone’s got some theory on what that means. Maybe she found out Lucius perjured himself and couldn’t in good conscience defend him!” 

Molly wasn’t so sure. “Do you think she’s accepting help from them? Housing, or finances, or something? Wouldn’t that be an ethical conflict?” She remembered what she had seen the previous week in Hermione’s office. Draco had seemed at great pains to help her with her life—that was a story that could look like bribery to a courtroom. 

“It would, but _perjury,_ Molly; think about it!” 

“You’re awfully excited,” said Molly dryly. He was pacing back and forth in the garden. 

“Of course I am! Lucius Malfoy, his sins finally catching up with him. Death Eater, terrible person, murderer, hurts Ginny, always interfering with my work, talking down to us, and what does he get for it? A family fortune! A seat on the governing board of Hogwarts!” Arthur laughed, a note of bitterness in his voice. “Oh, this is delicious.” 

Molly watched him walk back and forth for a moment. A smile slowly broke over her face. 

“You’re going to want to toast to this over dinner.” 

“Of course I am.” 

“Well, shall we?” She put away her degnoming gloves and followed him back to the house. 

Molly and Arthur entered the kitchen to be greeted by a distant wailing noise. She looked at Arthur and raised her eyebrows. It didn’t sound like the ghoul. It sounded...electric? And then the wail rose again, and this time within its tortured sounds Molly thought she could make out a basic chord progression. A drum thudded—off-key—shaking the floors and causing the pictures on the walls to rattle. Then came the unmistakable sound of singing, high-pitched, in a warbling soprano, that broke off before it really got anywhere and turned into a fit of coughing. 

Footsteps came thudding down the stairs, and Luna Lovegood burst into the kitchen. She came to a halt like a deer in headlights, her eyes wide as the full moon and a brilliant, startling blue. 

“Luna?” Molly said, staring at her. “What are you...what...how are you?” 

“Mr. and Mrs. Weasley!” Luna’s voice rang out clearly, and her shoulders relaxed as she floated forward in a cloud of white ruffles. She took both their hands in hers, which were tiny and callused. “Thank you for having me over.” She released their hands and turned into the kitchen, where she opened the mug cabinet and pulled out a glass for herself. 

“Luna…” Molly started, “It’s great to see you, but…” 

Luna’s eyes got wide again and she put the mug back. “I’m sorry! Am I not...I was just thirsty, and Ron said…” 

“Oh, you’re visiting Ron!” Molly exclaimed. She noticed Luna was still standing, primly, mugless, and she nodded towards the cabinet. “Go on, have a water, dear. Can I get you anything to eat?” 

“Oh, no thank you,” said Luna, filling up a mug in the sink. She took a long drag and smiled. “I’ve got to preserve my singing voice.” 

“Your...singing voice?” said Arthur. “So Ron is still…” 

“Oh, yes.” Luna’s face seemed to glow. “I’m a Spigot now.” 

“Well, you sound lovely,” said Molly. 

“You are so kind!” Luna beamed. An awkward silence followed. Then Luna refilled her mug and, without another word, turned and pranced back up the stairs. 

Molly turned to Arthur, barely able to contain her laughter. “Has he got...he’s got _Luna Lovegood_ for his band?” She had immense respect for the Lovegood girl after learning what she had suffered during the war, but she was such a quiet little thing. Molly could not picture her fronting a performance. 

Arthur shook his head, quiet fury in his eyes. 

“I can’t believe it. It’s terrible. But oh, this is rich.” She wiped her eyes. “A house elf, Luna Lovegood, and our son who doesn’t know how to play the guitar. And to think, Arthur, just think, he could have been a really good Auror.” 

 

* * *

The sounds of practicing continued for hours, starting as disjointed wails, thudding, and coughing fits but then slowly morphing into something that even Molly had to admit might be called “good.” 

She had never seen something make Arthur so increasingly angry before. He didn’t speak over dinner, his delight about Lucius Malfoy’s possible downfall draining out of his face with every bite he took.

“Didn’t you sort of like the joke shop?” She ventured at last. 

Arthur looked at her, his expression dark in what was almost a glare. “The twins were never going to be Aurors. I’ll like Ron’s music when he gets paid, gets out of here, and stops sponging off his friends.” 

“Right.” 

Molly heaped the leftovers onto a plate and carried it up to Ron’s room for Luna. 

“Thought you could use some supper,” she said, smiling at Luna. 

“Thank you!” Luna leaped up, her golden hair floating behind her. “Ron, I think my voice needs fuel now if you don’t mind.” 

“Where’s mine?” Ron asked, standing in the middle of the room, his hair mussed, a guitar strapped across his front. He was on his second dose of George’s potion, so the swelling on his face was down but he still had scales tattooed up and down his body. Molly ignored him and handed a small plate with a chicken leg on it to Kreacher, who was mostly hidden behind an enormous bass drum and who was clutching a tambourine. 

_“Kreacher is grateful to the pure-blood traitor whose marriage disgraced the noble House of Black,”_ he muttered under his breath. 

“Oh, sod off.” Molly rolled her eyes. 

“Mum?” 

“You can pay for your own food, Ronald.” She shut the door behind her and headed back down the stairs. She had made Luna’s serving extra large because she knew she would share. 

* * *

Ginny came home from practice a bit later, muddy and cheerful as ever. 

“Thanks, but I already ate,” she said to Molly, who was holding out a plate of food. She dashed upstairs to shower and change, then zipped back down. “Actually, food would be lovely.” She scarfed it down while Molly cleaned the kitchen. 

“Tea?” Molly had already put the kettle on. 

“Love some.” Ginny lazily aimed her wand and levitated her plate into the sink, washed it, and put it in the cabinet without stirring from her seat. 

“I see your household magic is getting better.” Molly nodded approvingly. 

Ginny shrugged, but she looked proud. “The spells are great for pranking Harry.” She leaned back and stretched, groaning. “I’m stuffed. Gonna go curl up somewhere comfortable. Care to join me?” 

Molly did, of course, and she followed her into the sitting room a moment later with two mugs of tea. 

“Did you know Luna’s here?” Ginny asked, taking her mug. 

“Did you know Hermione recused herself from the Malfoy case?” Molly answered her. 

Ginny burst into a grin. “Wow, is that so? You know, I think there’s something going on between her and Malfoy.” Ginny settled onto the couch and tucked her knees under her chin, tea balanced in her hands like she and Molly were guests at a sleepover. 

“Is there?” Molly settled in at once on the other end of the couch, because she loved gossip more than practically anything. Being quite a bit older than Ginny, she was no longer nimble enough to mirror the way she was sitting, so she settled for propping herself up with several pillows and crooking one leg on the couch. 

“Yeah.” Ginny smirked and dropped her voice. “They’ve been spending loads of time together. And I mean, _loads._ Harry says he never sees one without the other anymore. All day, late night, you name it.” 

“Don’t they study together, though?” 

“Yeah; that’s part of it! Draco never showed an interest in Magical Law until she did. I bet he’s got it _bad_ for her. I mean, seventh year—their eighth year, but they were repeating seventh, I guess—so you know how not many people showed up for that, right?” 

Molly nodded. 

Ginny took a sip of her drink and continued. “Just twelve. And Draco was the _only_ Slytherin. And nobody would talk to him. I mean, not the younger Slytherins, not even Slughorn. And like he kept trying to sit near Hermione. She used to complain about him to me the first term. He kept trying to sit next to her but then he’d just make snide comments, like how he always did.” 

Molly’s face twisted in disgust. She remembered the sort of awful comments her children would report to her. 

“Yeah. I know. Anyhow she complained about it to Ron on one of his visits, and I guess that shored up her courage or something because next day she and Malfoy had a blowout fight in the library. I mean, she yelled at him so loud she got them both banned from the library for two weeks.” 

Molly whistled, knowing Hermione’s love of books. 

“Yeah.” Ginny bobbed her head up and down for emphasis. “So then he gave her some space for a while. Whatever she said really got to him. He was super quiet.” 

“What did she say, do you know?” 

“Well, it was a lot about why would you think I would ever want to be your friend, you were terrible to me all through school, you called me all these names, your aunt tortured me, you were literally a Death Eater, I can’t believe you even got up the nerve to show your face in this school again; stuff like that.” 

“Yeah, I remember Ron coming home and gloating about that.” Molly took a sip of tea. “So what changed?” Ron had never followed up the story. 

“Well, then he got rushed to the Hospital Wing one night. It was the talk of the school. No one thinks he was trying to hurt himself, but he tried to blast the Dark Mark off his arm and he nearly died.” 

Molly winced, imagining the hit off the sort of spells that would take. 

“And then Hermione went quiet for a little while. And you know her; that’s unusual. So at Christmas, she goes home, he goes home, and a couple of days after Christmas he shows up at Grimmauld Place. But just Hermione and Harry were there. She said he just showed up on the doorstep one night, said he’d always been terrible and he realized that and he hated himself and he was ever so sorry and didn’t think he could ever make up for it, and that he was crying, and then he apparated back out of there before they could say anything. And then he didn’t come back to Hogwarts.” 

“He didn’t?” 

“Turned out he was visiting his Aunt Andromeda.” 

“Andromeda!” Molly choked on her tea. 

“Right!” Ginny nodded emphatically. “Apparently they’ve gotten close; he’d been asking her about his parents and he apologized to her, too.”

“I’ll have to ask her about him.” Molly had gone to see Andromeda several times since Christmas, mostly to help out with baby Teddy, and Andromeda had never mentioned anything of the sort. Not that they talked much about the war or its aftermath. They had both lost a child, and Molly was sure talking with Andromeda would help her, but somehow what seemed to happen instead of confidences were pained silences and awkward cups of tea split by Teddy’s welcome interruptions. 

“Well,” Ginny continued, “Andromeda let slip to Harry, and right before Easter Harry and Hermione caught him there and talked to him. For, like, hours, Harry said. But they all made up, and they’re convinced he really wants to move on. So they forgave him, and then he came back to Hogwarts, and failed all his classes spectacularly and only scraped through his N.E.W.T.S. because Hermione took pity on him and caught him up to speed.” 

“Ah.” Molly nodded. “And that’s when Ron got jealous?” 

“Well, Hermione used to say she thought he might like her, before she broke things off with Ron. She won’t talk about it since; believe me, I’ve tried. Part of it is she’s just insanely busy, and there was some client confidentiality rule, so she couldn’t tell me anything that might impact his dad’s case.” Ginny rolled her eyes. 

Molly moved her leg off the couch, as it had fallen asleep. 

“But, when he first showed up in her law class she thought he might be trying to come up with an excuse to spend time with her. She was pretty tickled and she wrote me in France and asked me if I thought he might like her, and you know me, I think everyone likes everyone. And I guess she broke things off with Ron two days later. So.” Ginny ended with a flourish. 

“Fascinating.” But Molly wasn’t totally convinced. “So you think she got off the case because they’re an item?” 

“I dunno; Hermione’s not talking to Harry right now, not since he tried to get her to move into Grimmauld Place, so we can’t ask her. I mean, look,” Ginny seemed to die inside a little, “I guess it’s possible her ‘ethical grounds’ recusal means she’s mad at Draco for trying to get her to move in with him, and maybe she just doesn’t want to see his face anymore. Or they could be off snogging somewhere. Who knows, really.” 

“Who knows, indeed.” They lapsed into silence, broken when Molly shot Ginny a piercing look. “Don’t tell your brother,” she said. “Things are bad enough with him already. Your father and I are having a terrible time trying to make sure he keeps his job.” 

Ginny raised her eyebrows. “Yeah, I know.” She laughed into her tea. _“Ron Weasley and the Spigots._ I can’t believe he’s got Luna as a vocalist. I had no idea she could sing.” 

Molly snorted. Luna sounded good, but she was...well, the Lovegoods had always been the odd family down the lane they never bothered to have over for tea. This spurred a sudden twinge of conscience. Should she have her over for tea? How was Luna? Her father had betrayed the Order to try and save her; what sort of effect was that having on her post-war? 

“Have you heard any of their output?” Ginny was saying now. “It’s glorious. Ron’s calling their album _Ode to My Letter X,_ meaning his ex, y’know, Hermione, and there’s a bit about ‘You think you’re so clever, but you’ll need me forever’ on one of the songs. It’s pretty hilarious. Try not to laugh when he’s performing at the Leaky Cauldron.” 

“We’re not going,” said Molly. “Your father and I have decided we’re not going to support this musical phase of his.” 

“Oh, you _have_ to come!” Ginny’s voice turned pleading. “Please. It’ll be so hilarious. He sings about his ghost baby—‘Subconscious child, you drive me wild.’ It’s absolutely golden. He’s gonna be a hit.” 

Molly smiled in spite of herself, but her stomach turned. “He’s singing about the baby ghost?” 

Ginny grinned. “Yeah. That’ll sure confuse the audience, don’t you think?” She looked around the sitting room, which was in disarray. “Boy, Ron sure must be mad at you inside to get his projection to smash all this.” 

Molly raised her eyebrows. She had given up following baby ghost Fred around all day to clean up everything he had broken, so now she and Arthur swept the house every night, repairing each room in one go. It had become a pleasant part of their evening routine. “I’m sure he has his reasons.” It wasn’t a lie, but it made her feel as tight as one. 

“I haven’t heard of people’s feelings making real, physical projections before,” said Ginny. “Have you?” 

Molly shook her head. “It must be some ancient magic. To tell you the truth, I don’t know much about emotional magic, or ghosts, or historical spells.” 

Ginny raised her eyebrows. “Yeah, History of Magic’ll do that to you. I’ll bet you Hermione is the only student in a hundred years who’s paid attention to anything in that class.” 

Molly smirked. “Your father and I had that class together.” A naughty smile flashed onto her face. “Professor Binns never looked up.” 

“Eww, Mum.” Ginny made a face and turned away. She surveyed the broken lamps, the ripped magazines, the Floo Powder spilled all over the floor. “Still, you’d think Hogwarts would have covered something like this. Maybe it was in the Restricted Section. I guess it’s not every day someone’s grief manifests physically.” 

“No,” said Molly. Her skin crawled a bit. She wanted Ginny to know the baby ghost was her brother Fred, but...well, couldn’t it be her and Arthur’s little secret, like Arthur had said? 

“Anyhow.” Ginny adjusted the way she was sitting, getting up to slide her legs underneath her and kneel on the couch, one arm searching within the pockets of her pajamas. “Been meaning to ask you and Dad.” She produced two green and gold tickets. “Saturday’s the last game of the season. Care to come see us finish off the _Wimbourne Wasps?”_

“We’d love to!” Molly perked up. “Ginny, I’m sorry your father and I haven’t been able to come to many of your games. You know we—” 

Ginny waved her away. “I know, I know, I know. The prices, the travel. Well, don’t you worry. I’ve scored tickets to the last game and I’ve got them for _everybody._ It’s going to be a smashing success. Audrey says she’ll even make Percy come.” 

“Percy’s coming?” Molly felt like someone had cast a levitation spell on her. 

“Yeah, or at least Audrey promised he will if she has anything to say about it.” Ginny took a last sip of her tea, then settled the mug on her knees. “She’s got quite a hold on him.” 

“Thank goodness.” Molly was starting to see Audrey as some sort of savior. 

“Well.” Ginny stifled a yawn. “I’m going to go see how Luna’s doing. I asked her to stay the night. Hope you don’t mind.” 

Molly shook her head. “Of course not.” 

“G’night!” Ginny got up and waved, before carrying her mug back into the kitchen and trudging up the stairs. 

Molly remained sitting on the couch, her tea growing cold. Baby ghost Fred crawled out of the wall a few minutes later. He locked his eyes on her, gave a little smile, and pushed over a lamp. 

“My little child, you drive me wild,” she murmured. 

Laughter sounded from upstairs. She closed her eyes, and for a minute she was back in the good old days.


	16. Fever On the Pitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s Ginny’s last Quidditch match of the season, but Harry can’t seem to get his head in the game.

“A ham sandwich? Really, Mum?” Ron peered into the brown bag. 

“You’ll like what you’ve got, Ronald,” Molly scolded him. She and Ron were on speaking terms again after his band’s first performance brought in ten galleons, but she was resenting her decision to pack him a lunch for today’s Quidditch game. 

“Thanks,” he said, his face glum. 

“Is everyone ready? Please! Is everyone ready? The portkey leaves in _ten minutes—”_ Percy’s face was visible above everyone else’s in the crowded kitchen, his brow creased and a note of panic in his voice. 

“Yes, yes, just a minute longer,” said Molly, pushing past him to give Angelina her sandwich. 

“I get one? Thanks!” Angelina glowed under her green and gold face paint. She and George had both charmed their old Gryffindor Quidditch robes to show Holyhead Harpies colors for the day, and the effect of their matching face paint was somewhat overpowering at seven in the morning. 

“Of course you do. Here, George—George—” she tapped him on the shoulder. He turned, as did Bill, who was trying to dissuade Fleur from a pot of coffee. 

“But ze Muggles know nothing,” she was saying. “I am sure eet will not harm ze baby if I have just a leetle bit. I am so tired, Beell…” 

“Harry, back me up here?” Bill asked, looking worried. 

“Me? I really don’t know,” said Harry, plunging dark circles under his eyes. 

“But weren’t you raised by Muggles?” 

“Yeah, but I’ve never been around anyone pregnant before, Muggle or not.” 

“You see?” Fleur crossed her arms and glared at Bill. “ ’E agrees with me! If it were all zat dangerous, zey would teach it in ze Muggle schools. Now give zat to me—” 

“Can I have some?” Harry was looking at the coffee pot with an expression of deepest longing in his gaunt eyes. 

“Yeah, take it,” said Bill. 

Harry poured himself half a cup, then paused for a moment, looking conflicted, as he felt the near-empty weight of the pot. He shook his head and poured himself the rest. Fleur stared daggers at the back of his neck. 

Percy’s voice was tipping to a panicky falsetto. “Please! Everyone! The portkey is leaving in—” he checked his wristwatch and nearly jumped out of his socks. _“Eight minutes!_ Our regulations are tightening; I cannot get you another one if you are late; I surrendered my scheduling authority to the Committee on Ethics—” 

“He’s right, let’s move out!” said Arthur, shoving George toward the door. 

Angelina followed, laughing, and tripped over Ron. Fleur allowed Bill to lead her out the door, her nose in the air. 

“Harry, you ready?” Arthur paused mid-threshold. 

“Yeah, just a second—” Harry attempted to chug his still-steaming coffee, but he missed his mouth and it went all over his robes. He swore loudly and sat down, putting his head in his hands. 

“Harry! You okay?” Arthur stepped back in. 

“Yeah.” Harry nodded, looking more upset than hurt. 

“Go on, we’ll catch up.” Molly waved the others out the door, and they dissipated across the threshold in a flurry of voices. 

_“Scourgify,”_ Harry muttered. The stain changed shape but remained on his robes. 

“No, no, there’s a better way,” said Molly. _“Scourgify_ is for objects; it’s too rough and imprecise for clothing. You want to use _Tergeo.”_ The voices moved down the lane, leaving the kitchen quiet. 

_“Tergeo,”_ Harry muttered, and the coffee shot back off his robes and into his wand. He was still gazing dolefully at his robes. 

“You all right?” Molly asked. 

“What? Yeah,” said Harry, looking up. “Sorry. It’s just been a...d’you mind if I have more coffee, actually? I barely got any, before…” 

Molly felt a wave of anxiety pass through her—what if they were late for the match!—but her urge to mother the boy overcame it. “Of course. It looks like it’s all finished...that’s okay, I’ll just brew another pot.” 

“Thanks,” said Harry. He sat down at the table, his shoulders slouched over. Molly, fixing a new pot, thought he looked awfully downcast. 

“What’s wrong?” She asked. 

“Nothing.” 

“Don’t lie to me; I’ve raised seven children and I’ve known you eight years. Something is bothering you.” 

Harry grinned in spite of himself and rubbed his face in his hands. “It’s just...it’s weird to go back to being an Auror, after France.” 

“How so?” There was an edge to Molly’s voice that was only tangentially related to the difficulty of getting the crumbling stove to spark up. 

“Well…” Harry’s voice sounded strained, like he was struggling to find the right words. “I like the work. I’ve always liked Defense Against the Dark Arts, and my coworkers are great. The office is great.” 

Molly relaxed a little—so _Ron Weasley and the Spigots_ was not about to get a new member. 

“It’s just…” and here Harry paused for a long moment. “I thought it would be meaningful, fighting Dark Wizards. And it was, rounding up the last Death Eaters, cleaning up infrastructure, working with the Muggle Prime Minister.” 

He fell silent for a long time. 

“So what changed?” Molly prompted him at last, turning around to face him, leaning back against the counter. 

Harry took a deep breath before continuing. “Well, I thought it was this big, dangerous, important job, protecting the Wizarding World. But I don’t think we’re doing even that effectively. It’s all about hiding it from the Muggles. We’ve got all these talented witches and wizards giving their all at the Ministry, every day. And for what? So Muggles don’t find out we exist? We’re not even helping those among us who really need it.” 

“Like who?” 

“Well, in France, their Ministry has this Social Services Department. They take care of the magical population. Not just making sure they aren’t discovered, but actually protecting them from one another.” 

Molly raised her eyebrows. The coffee was ready now; she fixed him a cup and handed it to him, taking a seat across the table. 

“Thanks,” he said, blowing on it to cool it. He remembered his wand then and cast a rapid spell to bring it to drinking temperature. He took a drink and set it down, an expression of distaste on his face. “See, that’s what I mean.” 

“Mean what?” Molly tilted her head, not seeing a connection. 

“The Dursleys. Me. Growing up. I still forget about household magic, all the time. And it shouldn’t have been like that! Sirius was supposed to be my guardian. Never mind the institutional failures that put him in Azkaban; it wasn’t supposed to be the Dursleys.” 

“Dumbledore said that was the best way to keep you safe,” said Molly. “There were those who still wanted to harm you.” 

“Safe?” Harry gave a hollow laugh. “They made me sleep in a closet, Molly.” 

It was the first time he had ever called her by her first name, and it stung her into silence. 

Harry had a little more coffee before continuing. 

“Look, I try not to get upset about it anymore, but every week we do these home visits to check on ex-Death Eaters, and I just think, why aren’t we checking on the people who really need it? If someone had come by the Dursleys’, just once…” His voice trailed off into space and he stared into his coffee like it was a bottomless pit. 

“Everything would have been different. I would have grown up...better. Neville might have had a better wand; it shouldn’t be legal to give them as heirlooms; he talked to Ollivander about it when they were imprisoned together and it’s just too dangerous. He wouldn’t have been teased at school for weak magic. Draco, too; there’s stuff in his life at his house he’s not telling us.” 

“Wouldn’t the Death Eater visits you’re doing now sort out the Malfoys, at least?” Molly interjected, picturing Lucius Malfoy practicing Unforgivable Curses in the drawing room with the shades down. 

Harry shook his head. “I don’t mean Dark magic. Not like that.” 

“Ah.” Molly thought she understood. “And Draco…?” 

“You can see it, when you’ve been through it.” Harry took another swill from his half-finished cup and set it down, staring out through the window past Molly. “Which is why I’d really like to keep track of things. Follow up on the orphans from the war. Make sure the Muggleborn parents get a really solid briefing. Maybe even invite the Muggle parents to Hogsmeade, form some sort of support group. Maybe Hermione wouldn’t have felt she needed to curse her parents to get them to go to Australia, if they knew what they were up against.” 

“And there’s no way to do that now, in the Ministry?” 

Harry shook his head. “It’s outside the scope of our mission, according to my superiors. I got a citation this week for asking a kid questions, actually. His parents used to be Death Eaters. I just wanted to make sure he was okay.” 

“Mm,” said Molly, not sure what to say. 

“Should we get going?” Harry looked down at his mug. “I don’t think I can finish this in time. I don’t want to make us late.” 

“Don’t worry about it.” Molly got up from the table, itching to get to the game. “Just leave it there; I’ll clean it up later.” 

Harry stopped on his way to the sink. “You sure?” 

“Yes, come on. Let’s go see Ginny.” She seized his arm tightly in hers, not sure what to say to him after all he had confided. So instead she pulled him out the door and they made their way to the Portkey. 

 

* * *

They arrived on the crest of a hill somewhere in Wales, a few hundred yards from a Quidditch pitch where the players were already circling in warm-up laps. Molly shielded her eyes with her hand, squinting, trying to make out Ginny in her green and gold robes. There she was—she ascended a bit, then lazily moved to hang upside down by her knees from her broom, stretching and yawning before getting back on. Molly grinned. 

“Well, look who it is!” Another portkey materialized a few yards away, and Lee Jordan came striding over, also bedecked in Holyhead Harpies colors. He hugged Angelina while George clapped him on the back. “This is practically all of you, isn’t it!” 

“Nearly,” said Arthur, who had come over to shake Lee’s hand. “Charlie couldn’t make it, of course. And Ginny invited Hermione, but she hasn’t heard back.” 

“Lee!” said Molly, coming over to embrace him. She loved seeing Lee and George together; it was like a piece of Fred, back again, though bittersweet. 

“Seats!” Percy’s eyes were wild now and his hair was mussed; he was running his hands through it nervously. “The game starts in _fifteen minutes,_ and I don’t know about you lot, but I am not going to watch my sister from the back of the stands. So...follow me.” 

He turned and strode off towards the pitch, and noted a moment later with an expression of relief that all the others were following. 

They arrived on the pitch and showed their tickets. 

“GINNY!” Molly yelled out, and waved her handkerchief. Ginny waved back and did a barrel roll in her honor. Molly cheered loudly. 

“This way,” said Arthur, putting an arm around her shoulder and leading her into the stands. 

They all filed in and took their seats. Somehow, Harry wound up between Molly and Arthur. He still looked exhausted, if a little more caffeinated. 

“I mean, think about the lawyers,” he said as soon as they sat down, resuming their conversation from before. “Look at Hermione. She’s working herself to death. And for what?” 

“Justice?” Molly did not want to be having this conversation right now. She pulled a Holyhead Harpies flag out of her hamper and handed it to Ron, who was asking for it. He and George each took an end and unfurled it before leaping to their feet, shaking the flag and howling. 

“Yes, but there is so much the lawyers _aren’t_ doing. They work themselves to the bone, and for what? So teenagers get expelled for using magic by accident? So Muggles don’t find out we exist? And all the while, we’re not even helping those among us who really need it.” 

“Uh-huh,” said Molly, not really listening, her eyes fixed on the referee making her way to the center of the field. 

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,” an announcer boomed from the corner, “IT IS MY PLEASURE TO WELCOME YOU TO TODAY’S MATCH. PLEASE, TAKE YOUR SEATS.” 

“I could do it better,” Lee Jordan muttered from Molly’s right. All of her children nodded emphatically. 

“I mean, do Muggles even really need us to be hidden anymore?” Harry mused. “I feel like they might be much more understanding, these days.” 

“AND NOW…” said the announcer… “PLEASE WELCOME...THE WIMBOURNE WASPS!” A flurry of yellow-and-black-robed players shot into the pitch from behind the stands, whizzing in directly over the Weasleys’ heads. 

“BOOOOO!!!!” yelled Molly, Arthur, Ron, and the rest of her assorted blood relations and their various romantic interests. Their voices were nearly drowned out by the cheering all around them. 

_“We’re on the wrong side of the pitch!”_ Percy, at the end of the row, looked like he was about to have an aneurysm. 

“Don’t worry, Perce; we’ll turn them.” George patted Percy on the head. 

“FACING...THE HOLYHEAD HARPIES!!” 

“GO GINNY!!” Molly screamed herself into a coughing fit and had to duck for a drink of water as Ginny and her teammates spun in from the other end of the pitch, barrel-rolling in unison and circling the field. 

“LET THE GAME...BEGIN!” The announcer threw up his hands, and the referee blew her whistle. The Bludgers flew up out of their casings, and she tossed the Quaffle into play. 

The players dove at each other, and the match was on. 

Molly took her seat again, leaning forward, trying to keep her eye on Ginny. She already had the Quaffle—no, she had passed it—no, she had it again—

“I mean, picture it.” Harry was still talking. “A fusion of our magic with Muggle technology. I mean, why are we still using quill pens, really? We could be helping them explore deep space without oxygenation problems.” 

“Why don’t you go talk to Arthur about that?” Molly said, eyes on Ginny, trying to get rid of him. “That’s more of his thing.” 

“Right,” said Harry. He turned to Arthur, who was on his left. “Don’t you think we should talk to Muggles more? I mean, just theoretically?” 

“Not now, Harry.” Arthur waved him aside. “We haven’t seen her play in months.” 

“Right, of course,” said Harry, looking startled awake. He pulled an oversized _‘I SUPPORT THE HOLYHEAD HARPIES’_ button out of his jeans pocket and pinned it on his jacket. “GO GINNY!” 

* * *

The match lasted for six hours. In the morning, victory was apparent. In the afternoon, victory was reversed. 

“I still think they can pull this off,” said George, taking a package of crisps from Bill. Bill and Fleur had just come back from a Muggle village nearby, because the sandwiches were long gone and Fleur claimed she was starving. George opened the package and offered some to Angelina without ever taking his eyes off the match. 

“It’s three hundred to two-twenty,” said Ron, watching the match through an old pair of Omnioculars. “They might, but it’ll take three more hours, and no one’s seen the Snitch yet.” 

Fleur groaned audibly. 

Ginny, a hundred feet in the air, moved quickly to stand then, balancing on her broomstick. 

“What is she doing?” said George, nervously munching on his crisps. His robes were beginning to fade back to red. 

The Quaffle shot by her head, and Ginny leapt from her broom to punch it into the goalpost. It missed the Keeper by a half an inch and sailed through. 

“TEN POINTS TO THE HOLYHEAD HARPIES!” 

“A DIONYSUS DIVE!” George looked like he might weep with pride. “NICE GOING, GINNY!” 

Molly leapt to her aching knees and cheered with the rest of them. 

But victory was short lived—Ginny managed to land back onto her broomstick, only to transition into a Sloth Grip Roll to avoid a Bludger. She rolled back into position and sped up down the pitch, intercepting the Quaffle. 

“Look! It’s the Snitch!” Harry jolted forward, pointing. 

“Oh, thank goodness!” Fleur moaned in relief, drawing glares from those around her. 

The tiny gold Snitch had appeared low to the ground, just visible against the green lawn. It was darting around in circles, and the two Seekers were after it now, jostling against one another. 

Ginny threw the Quaffle to her teammate then, and the two zigzagged down the pitch, passing it back and forth at lightning speed. The two Beaters came together and sent the Bludger her way with a single blow in a Dopplebeater Defence; it rocketed towards Ginny at double its normal velocity, but she sped away just in time. 

“AND ITS GINNY WEASLEY, HEADING DOWN THE PITCH, MAN THAT GIRL CAN FLY—” Lee was jumping up and down, unable to help himself. 

“DIONYSUS DIVE IT!” Angelina cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled. “GET IT IN THE GOALPOST!” 

Ginny seemed to hear her, because she looked her way and gave a minute nod. 

Unfortunately, the other team’s Beaters heard her, too. They got into position behind her as Ginny sailed across the field to intercept the Quaffle, gracefully rising to her tiptoes atop her broomstick. The crowd held its breath, watching. 

The Quaffle sailed by in a gentle loop, and Ginny bounced off her broom to meet it in mid-air, this time seizing it with both hands and thrusting it towards the goal. It looked like it was going to go through, but Molly missed seeing it because just then a Bludger collided with Ginny in mid-air, hitting her full in the back and knocking her several feet away from her hovering broomstick. 

Molly thought she heard Harry screaming, but then she was screaming too as Ginny fell from the sky, dropping like a wounded bird a hundred feet from the ground. 

Then—at once—one of Ginny’s fellow Chasers swooped in beneath her, sweeping her onto her broomstick not fifteen feet from the ground. 

Molly’s knees buckled below her and she fell into Ron, gasping in relief. 

An ominous gong rang out. 

“FOUL!” Yelled the announcer. “AND THAT IS A FOUL FOR THE HOLYHEAD HARPIES; TAMPERING WITH ANOTHER PLAYER’S BROOMSTICK—”

“WHAT!” George screamed, his face red. “YOU WANT MY SISTER TO FALL, YOU ABSOLUTE TWAT—”

Ginny seemed to be of the same opinion; she had landed now, and she and her teammate were having heated words with the referee. The third Holyhead Chaser circled towards them. 

The announcer had his head together with someone now, conversing. “IT IS A FOUL,” he said, turning back to the microphone. “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THAT IS FIVE POINTS FROM THE HOLYHEAD HARPIES, LEAVING THE WIMBOURNE WASPS IN THE LEAD, THREE HUNDRED TO TWO THIRTY-FIVE—”

George and Angelina roared, their faces livid, then leapt out of the stands in unison and onto the pitch, heading downfield toward where Ginny and her teammate were screaming at the referee. 

“IT’S A LEGITIMATE CALL!” Lee Jordan yelled, shoving Bill aside in his haste to follow them out of the stands. “I KNOW YOU DON’T LIKE IT, BUT IT REALLY IS A FOUL!” 

George and Angelina continued unabated, shaking their robes back to leave their fists free. 

“Harry! Ron! Stop them!” Percy screeched. “You’re Aurors! This is your lane!” 

Ron looked like he wanted to punch Percy. 

Down on the pitch, Lee Jordan caught up and seized George from behind, pinning his arms to his sides and forcing him to the ground. Angelina was still free; she launched herself at the referee and tackled her, screaming bloody murder. 

“AND THERE SEEMS TO BE A BIT OF A KERFUFFLE ON THE GROUND—”

Harry was out of the stands now too, shoving his way towards his fiancé. 

Ginny and her teammate had pulled Angelina off the referee now, but George was still trying to shake off Lee. 

“AND MACGREGOR CATCHES THE SNITCH!” 

Molly wrenched her attention back to the air, where the yellow-and-black-robed Seeker was circling, her fist in the air. 

“THAT’S A VICTORY FOR THE WIMBOURNE WASPS! THE GAME ENDS, THREE HUNDRED AND THE SNITCH TO TWO THIRTY-FIVE IN FAVOR OF THE WASPS; GOOD GAME, GOOD GAME EVERYBODY—”

Down on the pitch, Ginny punched the air, furious. George sank to the ground like a sack of potatoes, howling. 

The referee shrugged her shoulders and said something; it must have been offensive, because at once Harry’s wand was pointed at her throat. 

“HARRY, YOU USELESS GIT OF AN AUROR—”  
Percy yelled, his voice hoarse.

Molly groaned and buried her face in her hands. 

* * *

Twenty minutes later Harry and Angelina had both been kicked out of the pitch; George and Lee joined them outside in solidarity. Ginny rallied to join her teammates for cordial handshakes with the _Wimbourne Wasps._

Molly and Arthur caught up with her on her way out of the gate. 

“You flew wonderfully, dear,” said Molly, beaming. “Are you quite all right? Does your back hurt?” 

“It’s probably bruised,” said Ginny, nonchalantly munching on an apple. She saw Harry, Angelina, George, and Lee out of the gates, and a mischievous glint sparked in her eye. “For shame,” she said, marching right up to him. “Been keeping that bottled up all season, have you? I break my ankle in Greece; nothing. Temporarily blinded in Egypt? Nada. But one Welsh referee gives me a questionable foul, and suddenly you’re running in to save me—” 

She shoved him playfully. He grabbed her hands and held them, grinning. 

“The bat bogey hex is mine, Harry. _Mine._ Don’t bluff; I knew what was about to come out of your lips…” 

Harry laughed, pulling her into a hug. “I’m glad you’re all right.” 

Ginny squeezed him tight. “What did that woman say to you, anyway?” 

“She said Quidditch is a violent, archaic sport and that accidents are to be expected. Which, I’ve had plenty myself, but you were going to be in hospital for a week, and what was Macey supposed to do, not catch you?” 

“So that’s what set you off?” 

Harry shook his head. “It was really her use of the word _archaic_ that did it.”

Ginny gazed at him adoringly. “Well, brace yourself, because J. Beezly of the Daily Prophet has already shown up asking questions.” 

“Harry! Ginny!” A voice sounded from back towards the stands, and Ron stopped in his tracks, frozen.

“Hermione! You made it!” Ginny grinned. 

Molly turned to see the bushy-haired young witch, who had apparently just exited the stands. She had a large bouquet of flowers in a glass vase in her hands, and her eyes were darting uncertainly between the Weasleys. Ron was staring at her, open-mouthed. 

“These are for you,” she said after a second, breaking an awkward silence and handing Ginny the vase of flowers. “I’m sorry; I thought you were going to win, but…” 

“They can be consolation flowers,” said Ginny, taking them from her. “Like for a funeral. Celebrating the end of a great season. They’re beautiful! Thanks, Hermione.” She hugged her. 

“Of course.” Hermione shuffled her feet a bit, avoiding Ron’s gaze. “I’m sorry I was so late. I didn’t think I would be able to make it, I had to sit a practice exam all morning, but I got out and they said the match was still going on.” 

“Did you get to see anything?” Ginny passed the flowers to Harry. 

“Oh, yes, some excitement at the end! I was awfully worried when you fell. And _Harry…”_ She gave him her most scornful look. 

“Don’t forget us!” George piped up. 

“Oh, I haven’t.” A smile broke through her lips. “I’ve missed you, George! How have you been?” 

“Good!” George gave her a big hug. “The joke shop is running smoothly. You ought to drop by sometime.” 

“I’d love to.” Hermione stood still again. Her eyes fell on Ron at last. 

“I’m in a band,” he blurted out, instead of saying hello. “I play guitar now.” 

“So I’ve heard.” Hermione nodded. 

“What’ve you heard?” 

“I’ve heard you’re quite good.” 

“Yeah? Who’d you hear it from? Did you hear we made money off it? Tom from the Leaky Cauldron called us _diverting.”_

Hermione turned away from him, biting her lip. “Harry, could I talk to you a minute?” 

“Sure, what about?” Harry tried to hand Ginny her flowers back, but she shoved them back into his arms. 

“In private? I really need to talk to you. Please?” 

“Of course.” Harry nodded. “A minute?” He extricated himself from the group and he and Hermione walked off a ways by themselves.


	17. Social Services

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly tries to stick her nose in where it doesn’t belong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ever wanted to spend Christmas with the Weasleys? Bonus Christmas chapter dropping Tuesday 12/25, 8 pm GMT!

A week later—a few days before Christmas—Molly apparated to Grimmauld Place in order to drop off a plum pudding. Hermione had caved and moved in to Grimmauld Place with Harry, and Harry had admitted the other night that neither of them could cook. Remembering the sort of meals Kreacher tended to concoct, Molly thought they should have at least one decent dish in advance of Christmas. 

She rang the bell on the front step. It echoed within the house, but strangely remained unanswered for over a minute. Usually Harry or one of his friends would come racing to the door at once. She rang it again and waited. 

After several minutes, just as Molly was about to give up and come back later, the door eased open, seemingly by itself. A little unnerved, she walked in to see Kreacher behind the handle, staring up at her with big suspicious eyes. 

“Hello! Kreacher,” she said. “My, but you about gave me a fright. Is Harry at home?” 

_“Master and his friend are serving up plans that would shock the noble House of Black,”_ he croaked. He shut the door behind her, and she followed him down the hall. He ambled slowly on ancient legs, clutching something jangly in his left hand. 

“What have you got there?” Molly felt she couldn’t try and pass him without accidentally knocking into him, so she decided to try and make conversation. 

He looked up at her, his eyes yellow and doleful as ever. 

_“Kreacher is practicing his tambourine for the Weasley brat.”_ He gave it a good whack, and then another two, in a rhythm that might rightfully be called ‘jazzy’ but that in Kreacher’s hands seemed more suited to a funeral. 

“...Right.” Molly wasn’t quite sure how to respond. 

She could hear voices now, floating out of one of the drawing rooms. Harry and Hermione were engaged in some sort of very loud conversation, but they sounded excited, not angry. 

“...I say we’ve got to start with the children, it’s more defined,” Hermione was saying. “And it’ll be easier to find the legal authority there. Although Squibs could benefit from a checkin-in; I agree with you there. But we’ve got to be really careful not to set anything up that could be used to segregate people or hunt them down in the event that the Ministry goes foul again.” 

“Right, no Muggleborn registries,” Harry agreed. 

“Exactly.” 

Molly followed the voices into one of the drawing rooms off the hall from the stairs, the one bedecked with the Black family tree. The door was open; Harry and Hermione were pacing back and forth, a table between them stacked with scrawled notes. 

“Mrs. Weasley!” Hermione looked up. “What a nice surprise.” 

“Yes, Kreacher let me in,” said Molly. “I’ve brought you a plum pudding.” 

“Thanks!” Hermione took it from her. “This looks delicious.” She set it on a side table. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Shall we tell her, Harry?” Hermione looked at him, her eyes sparkling. “Do you want to say, or shall I?” 

“Go ahead.” Harry gestured to her. 

“All right, we’re going to do it.” Hermione faced Molly, her hands clasped in front of her, her eyes shining. 

“Do what?” 

“Start a Department for Social Services!” 

“A what?” 

“Like France,” Harry cut in. “Like I was telling you about. We spoke to the Minister this morning, and he likes the idea. He says we can do it, so long as we can justify a legal basis and provide our own funding. He says the Wizarding Parliament will slaughter him if he tacks on another item to their latest funding bill.” 

Molly blinked. 

“We haven’t got the money,” said Hermione. “And we’re still working on the legal documents. But we’re going to do it! Once it goes through, Harry’s going to quit his job and I’ll stay in school but quit being a paralegal. We’ve already found a closet we can enlarge into an office.” 

Molly opened and shut her mouth several times like a goldfish. “My!” She said at last. “So you’re both quitting your jobs?” 

Harry and Hermione nodded happily. 

“All three of you, now?” Molly sank into the nearest chair, a stiff wood thing, feeling a migraine coming on. 

“No, no, this is going to be a promotion!” Hermione hastened to correct her. “As Ministers of our own Department, we’ll both have much higher titles.” 

“But no salaries.” 

“Well, not yet,” said Harry. “I mean, we haven’t found any funding at all yet, so hopefully by the time we do that’ll be a non-question and there’ll be enough to pay ourselves, too.” 

Molly shook her head. All these young people, voluntarily launching themselves into poverty...it made her chest feel constricted, like she was being crushed under something large. 

“And I’m still going to be a lawyer,” said Hermione, trying to reassure her. “If I study to be a solicitor instead of a barrister, it’ll work out.” She picked up some papers and put them back down. “Which I think should be a welcome switch; I’ve found I hate public speaking a good deal more than I’d expected.” 

“Don’t you need work experience for that?” Molly found herself frowning. She didn’t mean to be so unsupportive, but this was striking her as an exceptionally half-baked plan. 

“This can be her work experience,” Harry interjected. “There’s no constitutional authority for it, so it’ll take loads of legal finagling to get through. More than she would have to do anywhere else.” 

“Yes, Kingsley says it can count for my experience before I sit the bar,” said Hermione. “So long as we can bring on board a real lawyer for me to apprentice myself to, that is.” 

“And have you found anyone?” 

“No,” said Hermione, looking a bit flustered. “But that’s probably because we haven’t asked anyone yet; I’m sure _someone_ will say yes. We’ve only just decided to give this a real go; we haven’t had time to ask around yet.” 

“Well.” Molly took a sharp breath. “I’m excited for you.” She managed a smile. 

“Oh, thank you!” Hermione threw her arms around her in a big hug. “You don’t know what it means, to have your support. I mean, we know it’s a risk; but we think it’s a good time for risks.” 

“Somebody needs to take them if we’re ever going to see change in the Ministry,” Harry added. 

“I suppose,” said Molly. 

“Well!” Hermione smiled at each of them, hugging herself. “It’s freezing in here. Are you lot cold?” 

“I can light a fire in the living room,” said Harry. Hermione nodded gratefully and looked at Molly. 

“I’ve still got my coat on,” she said, patting the wool overcoat she was wearing. 

“I’ll get a fire going.” Harry exited, taking the plum pudding with him. 

“I think I’ve got a cardigan in here somewhere…” Hermione pulled a tiny beaded bag off a table and stuck her entire arm into it. It must have had an extension charm on it, Molly reasoned. 

“So Draco Malfoy has been bothering you?” 

“What? Why would you say that?” Hermione was rummaging through the bag, which had swallowed her arm almost up to her shoulder. There were loud clanking noises coming from inside, like she might have packed a set of cookware. 

Molly shrugged conversationally. “Well, I just mean you got yourself off their case, obviously, and Ginny said he used to give you a hard time back at Hogwarts.” 

“Yeah, well, that was a long time ago. Aha!” Hermione pulled out a bit of fabric triumphantly, only to discover she’d just whipped out an entire folded tent and not her cardigan. 

“It wasn’t more recently?” 

“No. What’s Ginny been saying?” Hermione shoved the tent back in the bag and angled her wand in, frowning. _“Accio cardigan!”_ A gray cardigan zipped out into her hand. 

“Just that he’s been sort of finagling his way into spending loads of time with you, and might have some sort of unrequited interest in you. That’s what Ginny said,” Molly added hastily. 

“Well, she shouldn’t be going around saying those things. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.” Hermione was doing up her buttons into the wrong holes, and Molly wasn’t sure if the stormy expression on her face was due to her words or because her cardigan wasn’t smoothing out right. 

“But does she? I mean, you’ve obviously quit the case involving his family, and it sounds like you’re getting away from him by choosing a different course of study, and I couldn’t help but overhear when he asked you to move in with him the other day.” Molly adopted a worried expression—Hermione seemed like she had been going through a rough patch lately. “I just wanted to check if you were okay; it sounds like he might have been stepping on your toes a lot lately.” 

“Well he hasn’t,” said Hermione, a bit snappily. “He’s been very kind. And we are still taking classes together, just half of them now.” 

“So your recusal wasn’t…?” 

Hermione sorted out her buttons at last and tugged her cardigan smooth. “My recusal was for ethical reasons and it had nothing to do with Draco Malfoy.” 

“Ah.” Perhaps Arthur was right after all. “So has Lucius done something, then? Or Narcissa?” 

Hermione looked at her. “I really have no intention of telling anyone unless I’m legally obliged. I was part of their legal counsel, after all. I haven’t even told Harry.” 

“You haven’t?” Molly raised her eyebrows. 

A loud crash sounded in the hallway as someone burst open the door and knocked over the hatstand. Whoever it was swore loudly. 

“You all right?” said Harry’s voice in the distance. 

“Yeah,” drawled Ginny. “I’m here. I’ve made it. Your hatstand might not though; sorry. It’s actually sort of knocked one of the house elves off the wall…” 

“Oh dear, we’d better go help before Kreacher sees,” said Hermione, heading for the door. “Those are all relations of his.” 

Molly got up and followed her into the front hall, where Harry had already helped Ginny reassemble the smashed jar in which the house elf head in question resided. Ginny looked up and grinned. 

“Hello, Mum!” 

“Are the elves all right?” asked Hermione, hurrying forward to check. 

“Yeah, it wasn’t too badly damaged.” Harry dusted off his hands. “Is your broom okay?” 

Molly noticed a broom then, upturned and tangled in the hatstand. 

“Yeah,” said Ginny, tugging it out and examining it. “Looks all right.” 

“Did you try to fly in the door?” Molly asked, her tone accusatory, looking from the open door to the broom to the mangled hatstand. 

“I thought if I opened the door as I was coming in for a landing it would save me some time on the stoop.” 

“Ginny! There are Muggles about.” 

She shrugged. “It’s sort of foggy out. Besides, I’ve done it loads of times and no one’s noticed yet.” 

“You’re turning right into your father, I swear it…” 

Ginny grinned. “Yeah, well.” She turned to Harry. “Is Draco here yet?” 

“No, he’s coming in a bit,” said Hermione quietly, with a furtive look at Molly like she didn’t want her to hear. 

“Draco’s coming?” Molly took a step forward, her voice rather loud. 

“Er, yeah,” said Harry. 

“The three of us like to have cocoa and cozy chats by the fire on the nights Hermione isn’t in school,” said Ginny brightly. “We invited Draco once, and I guess he had a good time. He’s an absolute whiz at Exploding Snap, and we needed a fourth.” 

An unbidden list of more suitable card table companions went buzzing through Molly’s mind then, but she stopped herself from saying any of them out loud. 

“Care to stay for dinner?” Harry asked. “We’ve picked up a curry from the shop.” 

“No, thank you,” said Molly, shaking her head, rather more eager to get home and discuss the latest developments on their Malfoy theories with Arthur. “It’s late; I’d best be getting back.” 

“Of course,” said Harry. “Well, it was great to see you!” He hugged her. 

“Thanks for the pie,” said Hermione, a bit less enthusiastically. 

“See ya, Mum!” Ginny hugged her and tripped over the rug on her way to the living room. “Ow!” 

Molly skulked around the front step for a moment, just in case the blond wizard apparated in, but he must have been running late. She noticed one of the Muggle women peering out at her while trying to scrub the condensation off her window, and gave her a little wave. The woman didn’t wave back, just continued to stare suspiciously. Molly figured she had best be off then and walked to a discreet spot at the end of the lane before vanishing into thin air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this is a bit shorter than average; there was a final bit of groundwork to lay. I promise Christmas and what comes after shall be explosive, lengthy, and musical ;)


	18. A Mostly Happy Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s Christmas Day, and everyone is home for the holidays. Including Luna, for some reason. Ron presents an emergency song.

“Someone’s been wrecking my storerooms,” said George.

It was Christmas Eve and he, Molly, Angelina, and Ron were seated in the kitchen waiting on a tray of cookies. 

Molly frowned. “Do you think it could be one of your employees?” 

“I dunno,” said George, shrugging. “I hope not. But it’s gotten pretty bad. Nothing’s been broken, but I’ll get up in the morning and all the boxes in the storeroom will be all over the floor. All the trick objects get activated, too; whoever it is is going around waving the trick wands and turning them into squeaky toys so I have to go fix them before I can sell them.” 

“Yeah, it’s pretty disastrous,” said Angelina, stirring a giant marshmallow into her cocoa. “We’ll definitely have to fire whoever it is, once we sort that out. I mean, we can’t keep getting up an hour earlier to fix everything.” 

“Does it happen every day?” Molly asked. 

“No, thankfully not. And at least they aren’t touching the store.” 

“Right,” said George. “The store is immaculate. It’s just the storeroom getting wrecked.” 

“That is so odd,” said Molly. “It sounds like a prankster at least, not a thief.” 

“Right.” George glanced at his watch. “How long are Harry and Ginny going to be in Godric’s Hollow? I mean, it’s not like there’s much to do there. I doubt the shops are even open today.” 

“They should be back any time now,” said Molly. Harry and Ginny had left that morning for a day trip to Godric’s Hollow to visit his parents’ graves. Ron had wanted to go too, but Harry stressed he wanted it to be a private visit—something about introducing Ginny to his parents. Molly felt for the poor girl; it was a sweet thought, but spending several hours talking to a headstone would be a drain on anybody. 

“Maybe they went somewhere else after,” said Angelina. “I know Ginny’s been craving the Three Broomsticks. They might have apparated to Hogsmeade for the afternoon.” She took a sip of her cocoa. “How’s your life going, Ron? You haven’t said a word all day.” 

Ron was sitting at the end of the table, where he had his body angled away from them towards the door. He had been rather checked out of the conversation, drumming his fingertips on the table, thinking, but he turned back now. 

“All right, thanks for asking,” he said. “We’ve booked a gig at the Grouchy Gremlin in Diagon Alley, actually. For Saturday.” 

“Can we come?” Angelina’s face lit up. 

“Yes, please!” Ron cracked into a smile. “I couldn’t do it without my regulars.” 

Angelina put a hand on George’s shoulder and looked at Molly. 

“Have you heard them play yet?” 

“Just a bit upstairs when they’ve been practicing,” said Molly over the rim of her mug, raising her eyebrows and taking a haughty sip. 

“You should come Saturday! You’ll love it. Heroes of the Monday night crowd, they are.” 

Ron grinned. “Yeah, last Monday we got twenty people listening in the Leaky Cauldron. Tom said that’s at least five more than he usually gets,” he gloated. 

“Yeah, they’re really good,” said George. “Ron’s rubbish, of course.” He smirked at Ron, who looked offended. “Kidding. He’s getting better. But that Luna can sing.” 

“Maybe,” said Molly, her resistance flagging. “I’ll have to talk to Arthur.” 

“Why? Just come yourself,” said Angelina. “That’s what I do, when George has to work late.” 

“Yeah, fat lot of help this one is,” said George, jerking his thumb in her direction. “Any time I’ve got to mop something I turn around and she’s disapparated.” 

There was a clatter on the lawn then. 

“That must be Ginny and Harry,” said Molly, getting busy making their cups of cocoa in advance. 

Sure enough, the door burst open a few moments later. Ginny and Harry came in, laughing, clutching their broomsticks. 

“Happy Christmas!” There were hugs and greetings all around. 

“Did you go to Hogsmeade?” Angelina asked. 

“How did you know?” Harry stood up his and Ginny’s broomsticks by the door. 

“Told you!” said Angelina to George. 

“Yes, you’re brilliant,” said George, distracted. Angelina smiled smugly. 

Ron had got up and hugged both of them now, and he was looking around the room counting people. 

“Where’s Hermione?” 

“Hermione?” Ginny accepted her cocoa from Molly and fixed him with a quizzical stare. “Hermione’s not coming, Ron.” 

Ron’s face drooped. “What do you mean, she’s not coming for Christmas?” 

“Well, er, Ron,” said Ginny, balancing her mug on the counter, trying to be tactful, “You’re not together anymore. She just thought it would be awkward, I guess. Why would she come?” 

“Because she’s Hermione!” Ron blurted out. “And she came last year. And we’d have Christmas together at Hogwarts.” 

“Yeah, well…” Ginny looked to Harry for help. 

“Sorry, Ron,” said Harry. “Maybe next year.” 

“But…” Ron hugged his arms to his chest. “But I was going to sing her a song, and get her back.” 

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Is that why you’ve rigged the place with mistletoe?” 

Ron pretended to ignore him. “I dunno when she’ll hear the song now,” he said. “I keep waiting for her to show up at the Leaky Cauldron, but she hasn’t come yet.” 

“Well, she’s very busy,” said Ginny. “Although, actually, we’ve all got some exciting news!” 

“What is it?” Molly asked. 

“Harry, care to do the honors?” 

Harry set down his mug. “Kingsley’s officially signed off on the project! We found a retired lawyer who’s willing to help Hermione on a part-time basis. The Department for Social Services is officially a go! We’ll be announcing it after Christmas.” 

“That’s brilliant!” Said Ron, beaming. “Good for you, Harry.” 

“Yes, I’m so glad to see it finally happening.” 

“So it’s all set?” Molly pushed. “You’ve got your sign-off, and her legal experience lined up?” 

“Yes,” said Harry. “We’ll both be handing in our notice in the New Year, once it’s all a go.” 

“It’s totally ready,” said Ginny, clutching Harry’s arm proudly. “Hermione’s at Grimmauld Place now working on an action plan and some Principles of Mission.” 

_“And_ we’ve secured funding!” Harry added. “Someone’s come on board to bankroll the project and help with donor relations among Pureblood families. So there’s nothing to worry about anymore.” 

“That’s brilliant! Who is it?” 

“Er…” Harry paused a minute before responding, looking at Ginny for help. “Draco Malfoy.” 

_“NO!”_ Ron sat up, aghast. “Not that bugger! How awkward is that going to be, when I get back with Hermione?” 

“Ron, no offense, but it’s been several months,” said Ginny. “Haven’t you started to think this might be permanent?” 

Ron shook his head, eyes wild. “Our subconscious child is still here. It’s meant to be, Ginny. You can’t argue with destiny.” 

“Well, great,” said Ginny. “Then let’s just say Draco was destined to liquidate the Malfoy family fortune and help Harry set up a Department for Social Services.” 

“Harry, why?” Ron pleaded. “Can’t you use your fortune? The Malfoys have a vested interest in making sure people stay worse off than them.” 

Harry shrugged. “I haven’t got that much of a fortune really, when you add it all up. It’s comfortable enough, but Kingsley said he can’t get this through Parliament if he has to tack it on to the budget bill, so we can only do it if we find our own funding. My money will be gone very quickly if it starts going towards food and I haven’t got another job.” 

Ron groaned. “Why _him?_ Frankly, Harry, I just feel like you’ve replaced me with a Slytherin. First Hermione’s gone from my life, and now you’ll have him for a colleague instead of me.” 

“Hey, you’re the one who went and quit the Auror Department,” said Harry. 

Ron clutched his head. “No, no. This is all wrong.” He glared at Harry. “I was really looking forward to Christmas, and now you’ve ruined it.” 

“Ronald!” Molly chastised him. “Be happy for your friend.” 

Ron glared at her, too. “I’m going to bed,” he said, getting up from the table. “Don’t wake me when you come in, Harry. I’ll see you lot in the morning.” He started to leave. “Oh, and if you’re still looking for a good Christmas gift, might I recommend courses on how to be a better friend?” He turned on his heel and stomped upstairs. 

“Happy Christmas to you too, Mr. Grouchy,” said Ginny under her breath. She rubbed Harry’s arm comfortingly—he looked upset. “C’mon, Harry. Let’s get you some more cocoa.” 

“Don’t mind him,” said Molly, levitating the empty mugs into the sink. “We’ve saved a couple of ornaments for you.” 

“Yeah, if you can keep them safe from Ron’s baby,” George said, the old light back in his eyes. “I love that little bugger.” 

“Yes, well, he’s pulled the whole tree down twice this evening.” Molly wiped her hands on the dishcloth. It was a simple enough spell to get it back upright, at least, but she was starting to wish baby ghost Fred would at least think of something new to wreck. 

“He reminds me of me.” George leaned back proudly. 

Something caught in Molly’s throat and she looked away. George and baby ghost Fred had been messing with one another all evening. She hadn’t seen George look so happy or, frankly, take so much interest in life since Fred had died. It hurt her physically that he hadn’t yet recognized his twin brother, and she was starting to dread the day the lively spark left his eyes again. 

“Ornaments?” Harry smiled a little. “Thanks, Mum. That’s very kind of you.” 

Molly turned from the countertop she was now wiping down. He suddenly struck her as someone desperately in need of a hug, so she went to him at once and wrapped him in a large one. 

“Er, hello,” he said awkwardly. She held him tighter. 

“How are your parents?” She asked, quietly enough so no one else would hear, sensing he might want to talk about his day. 

“Good,” he said. “Nothing’s different. It all looks fine. We brought flowers.” He bit his lip and looked away. 

“That’s very kind of you,” said Molly. “I’m sure they appreciate that.” She let him go and went back to the dishes. Harry walked over into the living room, and a moment later she heard him and Ginny exclaiming over the remaining ornaments. 

She smiled at the mugs, happily immersed in her soap spell. Arthur was saying something loud and jovial; they were laughing now. And Charlie was in there; he’d just gotten in that morning from Romania. Why, if she wasn’t mistaken, and counting baby ghost Fred, all her children would be under the same roof for Christmas. This was the first time in ages. 

* * *

“What do you want for Christmas?” Arthur asked in the dark, hours later, when they had gone to bed. 

Molly grinned in spite of herself. “You,” she said. It was a yearly ritual. 

Arthur rolled over to face her. “Still? After all these years?” He asked in mock surprise. 

“Of course.” She smiled at him. 

“But we’ve got money this year.” 

“Have we?” She feigned ignorance. 

“Oh, yes. Piles of it. A right fortune.” 

“Did you get the money?” 

Arthur smirked. “Well, I suppose I did.” 

“Then I want you.” She kissed him, like she always did. 

“NO!” Something wet smacked her in the face, and she opened her eyes to see baby ghost Fred, who had just surfaced through the mattress. He turned to face Arthur, snarling. “Mama hug FWED!” He snuggled up in her arm. “Fweddy misses Mama.” He yawned. 

Arthur laughed. “Well, I miss her too.” 

Fred’s head was still tucked against Molly, muffling his voice. “Go ‘way.” 

“Hey, that’s not very nice,” said Molly, rubbing his back. “Can we all cuddle up together? Let’s do that, shall we?” 

Fred considered it for a moment. “Kay,” he said at last. 

Drifting off, Molly wondered if it might be the start of a new Christmas tradition. 

* * *

Molly and Arthur were up early the next morning, but when they walked into the living room Charlie was already sitting there. 

“Morning!” He said, his scars aligning in a rakish grin. “Happy Christmas. I’ve already put the kettle on.” He nodded toward the kitchen. 

“Oh, Charlie…” Molly couldn’t resist pinching his cheeks. 

“Ow, Mum; I’m not five anymore.” 

“I know.” She straightened up and squinted at the magazine he was reading. _“Witch Weekly?”_

“Yeah,” said Charlie, closing it. “There was something about Harry getting into an altercation with a referee. Ginny doesn’t come off too well in the reporting. Something about ‘In an effort to avoid a well-deserved foul, Miss Weasley unleashed her famous fiancé on poor Madam Scrubbs.’” 

“Yeah, well, I was there and that wasn’t quite how it went down,” said Molly. “Thanks, Arthur.” He had just handed her a large cup of tea. She settled down into the comfortable armchair that was next to Charlie’s and looked at the tree. It was a scrawny pine Bill had dragged in, but with the help of some water and an old spell book she’d been able to spruce it up a bit. They’d decorated it last night—all tinsel and candles and ancient ornaments—and it looked quite nice. 

“Morning!” Said Ginny brightly, wandering in. “Happy Christmas, everyone.” She plopped down on the couch. “How’s the dragon business, Charlie?” 

“Good!” He set his magazine aside. “It’s a bit different now that I’m Head Dragon Ranger. Much longer hours, loads of supervision, and lots of responsibility. Still, it’s great.” 

“We’re so proud,” said Molly, smiling at him. “Is that the highest you can get promoted?” 

Charlie nodded. “Yeah. Next step up is a desk job. But you know me; I like to be out in the field.” 

The fireplace flashed green then and George and Angelina came spilling out together. They had gone home together after the celebrations last night; George still preferred not to sleep in his old room. 

“Where’s my little projection friend?” George asked, looking around for baby ghost Fred. 

“He’s around here somewhere,” said Molly, craning her neck to check behind her chair. “I heard him messing with a bathroom this morning. I’m surprised he hasn’t gotten into the presents.” 

George rubbed his hands together gleefully. “I’m gonna go find him.” 

“Don’t be away long,” said Angelina, pulling him in for a kiss. She plopped down onto the loveseat and grinned at Molly as soon as George had left. “Isn’t this fantastic? I haven’t seen him this happy in ages.” 

Molly agreed vehemently. 

Angelina threw back her head on the rim of the couch and stared up at the ceiling. “Now if he could just befriend that prankster who keeps getting into our storeroom…” 

“Happy Christmas!” Bill was coming down the stairs now, leading Fleur, who looked disgruntled. 

“Coffee, Beell, eef we were in France zey would give me coffee, I am telling you…” she made a beeline for the kitchen. 

“Yes, well…” Bill followed after his wife, shrugging apologetically as they passed. 

Bill and Fleur had planned on spending Christmas with her family in France, but when they went to register for an international portkey the inspector had balked at her advanced stage of pregnancy and refused to issue them one. They’d kicked Charlie into Percy’s old room. 

“Percy’s coming, right?” Arthur put his feet up on the ottoman, looking over at Molly to double check. 

She nodded. “Yes, but they’re coming over a little before Christmas dinner. They’re spending the morning with Audrey’s parents.” 

Arthur raised his eyebrows approvingly. “Well, that’s moving quickly.” 

“Good for Percy,” said Bill, who had just re-entered from the kitchen and conjured up a squishy sofa for him and Fleur. “The girls wouldn’t even look twice at him, at Hogwarts.” 

“Yeah, and that’s despite his being Head Boy,” said Charlie. 

“I’ll bet that had something to do with it.” Bill was looking at Fleur, concerned—he’d finally given her a thimble-sized cup of coffee, and she was savoring it like it was the elixir of the gods. “Has Audrey got a stick up hers, too?” 

“Don’t talk about your brother like that,” Molly chided. 

“Audrey’s a lovely young woman,” Arthur put in. “Simply delightful. You’ll like her when you meet her later.” 

Charlie rolled his eyes at Bill. 

George came in then, carrying baby ghost Fred in his arms. He had his old mischievous glint in his eyes. “Right, let’s show them what you can do.” He stretched his arms out straight in front of him, holding Fred in his hands like a missile. “Mum, you’re gonna like this. Three, two, one—BLAST OFF!” 

Fred scrunched up his little face and took off like a rocket through the ceiling. 

Molly yelped—she could hear crashing noises as he burst up through floor after floor, knocking things over in the bedrooms above. 

“Ouch! Merlin’s beard! What _is_ that!” Harry exclaimed loudly, his voice drifting down from the top floor. There was another series of crashes and clatters growing ever louder and the baby ghost Fred dropped into George’s outstretched hands, grinning madly. 

“He’s your new wake up system!” George lifted him up and showed him off to the room. “You can turn Ron against himself and make him get up on time for once.” 

“Bravo,” said Angelina, clapping. 

“My, is that—is that something to do with Ron?” Charlie leaned forward intently. “He looks more like a ghost to me, not a Ron.” 

“Is this the subconscious grief thing he keeps writing songs about?” Bill asked, also fixing a wary eye on baby ghost Fred. 

“Yeah,” said George, grinning. “He’s loads more fun than Ron, though. I mean, _such_ creativity. I found him stopping up all the faucets with toothpaste.” 

There were footsteps crashing down the stairs now. “Happy Christmas,” said Harry blearily, stumbling through the living room to join Ginny on the couch. “Ron says he’ll be down in a minute. I don’t think he got much sleep; he was gone half the night.” 

“Gone?” Molly looked around questioningly, but Arthur didn’t have an answer for her. 

Ginny slid off the couch and into a standing position. “Coffee, anyone? Harry? Mum?” 

“Yes, I beg you,” croaked Fleur, holding out her empty thimble. Ginny took pity on her and summoned it. 

She came back from the kitchen a couple of minutes later. Arthur had got the fire going then, and it was making the tinsel on the tree sparkle merrily.

Molly checked Charlie’s wristwatch and sighed. “Will someone go wake Ronald?” 

George, playing patty-cake with baby ghost Fred, shook his head. “I think I hear him coming.” 

There was a lot of crashing and banging coming from the stairs now, and an inordinate number of footsteps. It grew closer, and in a moment Ron trundled down the stairs, followed by Luna, who was helping Kreacher carry down a large bass drum. 

“Luna!” said Molly, sitting up straight in surprise. She was suddenly very aware of her ratty old dressing gown. “Happy Christmas! Why aren’t you home with your family?” 

“I’ll be back in a bit,” said Luna airily. “My father’s waiting for me. But I told him Ron needed me for something important.” 

“What’s that?” Molly looked suspiciously as Luna help Kreacher set up the bass drum next to the Christmas tree, then handed him his tambourine. 

“Kreacher’s supposed to be off for the week,” said Harry, shooting an accusing look at Ron. “What have you dragged him here for?” 

_“Kreacher never knows,”_ said the house-elf dolefully. _“But for some reason Kreacher must come when the Weasley brat calls.”_

“That’s terrible, Ron,” said Ginny, sounding for a moment like Hermione. Ron ignored her and turned to address the room. 

“Good morning everyone,” he said solemnly. “Good morning and Happy Christmas. Before we get started with our celebrations, I’d like to take a moment to perform an emergency song for you all. It’s something that happened during the night, and it needs saying. I’ve hit a milestone in my life. Don’t be surprised if my subconscious child disappears after we play this.” 

Baby ghost Fred crawled into George’s arms, and George held him tight. 

“This is called _I’m Over That Granger.”_

Ron hefted his electric guitar across his chest and strummed a warm-up chord. Molly looked at Arthur, both their faces filling with secondhand embarrassment. Even Angelina looked wary. 

Luna closed her eyes and held out her arms. She began to sway back and forth as Kreacher started to pound the bass drum, slowly, mournfully, like it was a funeral. Then he brought in the tambourine on the half beat. Its little bells jangled sadly. Molly cringed. 

Luna opened her mouth and began to sing. 

_“They say that a Grange is a country house_  
_I say it’s a girl with brown hair._  
_It’s really no matter, because either way_  
_I’m over that Grange over there.”_

Ron screeched in with the electric guitar, playing some complicated scale as Luna danced, seeming to feel the beat somewhere deep within her. 

_“I’m flying my broom o’er the farmhouse_  
_She’ll never break my heart again_  
_I’m over all the Grangers in England and France_  
_I’m flying over and away again.”_

“Oh dear,” Molly whispered to Arthur, but he shushed her. Luna continued to sing, her soprano growing higher and ever more clear. 

_“No matter how many Slytherins_  
_Work on that farm_  
_I swear I won’t care anymore_  
_Because what sort of Slytherin_  
_Can do me harm_  
_When I’m over that Granger over there?”_

Harry raised his eyebrows at Ginny. “Malfoy?” He said in a loud whisper, earning himself a glare from Ron. Ginny nodded, struggling to hold in a giggle. Luna launched back into the chorus. 

_“I’m flying my broom o’er the farmhouse_  
_She’ll never break my heart again…”_

Ron broke into a jazzy guitar solo which just sounded like noise to Molly’s ears, but she noticed Charlie and George were nodding along like it was good. 

_“I’m over all the Granges in the whole wide world_  
_I’ve flown over them all on my broom…”_ sang Luna. She reached for a high note on the next line, and just barely managed to hit it. 

_“Farm houses can do whatever they waaaaaaaaaaant….”_ She held the note, straining, opening her eyes wide in effort and closing them again as she let it go. 

_“I’m sure I’ll find a new lover soon.”_

Kreacher thwacked the tambourine and the bass drum repeatedly and Ron played a few final chords. The music faded away. 

“Bravo, bravo!” Charlie leapt to his feet; George was clapping as well. “Very good.” 

“Nicely done, Ron,” said Bill, joining in the applause. Molly noticed Harry and Ginny and Arthur start to clap as well, so she did as well. “Love the instrumentals.” 

“Yeah, and nicely done, Luna,” said Charlie. 

“You think?” Ron was grinning. “I finally feel free, too. She hasn’t got a hold of me. I don’t need her anymore.” 

“‘Course you don’t,” said George. 

“I’ve got my music now.” 

“Yes you have.” 

Ron looked around, beaming. Molly found herself smiling back at him. He looked so happy, for once. Maybe she would go to his concert. 

His eyes alighted on baby ghost Fred, who was also clapping, and his face fell. “He’s still here,” he said. 

“Yeah, lucky for that,” said George. “Nothing like a fun little subconscious projection to liven up Christmas. Think how depressed we’d all be if he’d gone.” 

Baby ghost Fred looked up at him with puppy dog eyes and nodded. 

“Right, maybe I can still be over her,” said Ron. 

“That’s the spirit.” 

“Totally,” said Charlie. “I mean, you’re over all the granges and hedges in the world, aren’t you.” He punched Bill jovially on the shoulder. 

Ron looked around the room. “I do miss her, though. Is she really just waiting at Grimmauld Place to have dinner with you lot?” 

“She’s got plenty of books,” said Ginny, but she and Harry both looked like they were starting to feel a bit guilty. 

Ron turned to Molly. “Mum, is it all right if I send her an owl?” 

“Of course,” said Molly, taken by surprise. “I haven’t got a problem with it. Arthur?” 

Arthur shook his head. “It would be lovely to have Hermione over.” 

“Right, then I’m gonna do that,” said Ron, his face shining. “Luna, Kreacher, your work is done here. Thanks a million.” 

“You can’t just kick Luna out like that,” said Molly. “At least take a cookie for the road.” She smiled at the girl. 

“Thanks,” said Luna, taking one from the platter on the coffee table. “My dad’ll want me back, though. It’s been lovely seeing you all; very familial. Happy Christmas!” 

Ron was over in the corner, scrawling something on a bit of parchment. He called for Pigwidgeon and fastened it to his leg. “Find Hermione,” he told him. “And hurry. She’s alone and sad.” 

Pigwidgeon hooted and flew off. Ron watched him go. “There,” he said magnanimously. “We can be friends again. It’s the right thing to do.” He sat cross-legged on the floor by the tree. “Shall we open presents?” 

* * *

A couple of hours later, the Christmas turkey was nearly finished roasting in the oven, sending a lovely smell wafting into the living room. 

“Tell me it’s almost ready,” groaned Ginny, her eyes shut, clutching her stomach. She was clothed in a new maroon jumper with a G on it; Molly was quite proud of this one and thought it might be some of her best handiwork yet, though she had spent twice that time making a smart silver one for Percy in the hopes that he would wear it. He was sitting in the corner with Audrey, for whom Molly had decided to make one last minute. She was terribly glad she had; the mousy little witch had pulled it on over her floral dress with an expression of such delight. She acted like she’d been given the Crown Jewels, not a knitted bit of clothing, and after that Percy had had to put his on, too. 

“Not much longer now,” said Molly, looking up from _Witch Weekly._ The Christmas edition was always a good one for gossip. There was something about Celestina Warbeck possibly having had an illegitimate child with a rogue Centaur; it was all quite scintillating. 

“Yeah, stuff it,” said Ron, who was also laying back on the floor by the Christmas tree. George and Angelina had given him a charmed notebook for writing music, and he was scribbling ideas down. “You’ve got to give Hermione time to get here.” 

Ginny groaned. “It’s been hours. I’m starving. Ouch.” 

Harry tried to throw a chocolate in her mouth, but it hit her in the face. “Sorry.” He unwrapped another one and ate it himself. “D’you reckon we should go check on her soon, in case she didn’t get the note?” He asked Ginny. “She’d said she was going to make us a whole Christmas dinner; I’d hate to not show up and leave her in the lurch.” 

Ginny nodded. “Yeah, probably.” She sat up and ate the chocolate Harry had thrown at her. 

“She’ll have gotten the note,” said Ron with conviction, speaking from his position by the tree. “Pigwidgeon’s very smart, considering.” 

“Considering what?” George asked. 

“Considering that he's a complete idiot,” said Ron. 

George smirked. “Right. Just wanted to make sure we were talking about the same owl, here.” 

“Oh, shut up.” Ron chucked an empty chocolate wrapper at his head. 

The room filled with green light just then. 

“Harry! Are you there, Harry?” A voice called from the fireplace. 

Molly turned to see a face in the flames. 

“Hermione?” Harry hurried over and knelt by the fireplace. “We were just about to come by. Is everything all right?” 

“Have you got my letter?” Ron dove toward the fire anxiously. 

“Er, hi Ron,” said Hermione. “No, I haven’t.” 

“Damn that Pigwidgeon,” said Ron under his breath. 

“What is it? Harry asked. 

“Er…” Hermione looked around the living room. She seemed a bit surprised to see all the Weasleys staring back at her. “Well, okay. Harry, we fixed them!” She beamed. 

“What? Fixed who?” 

“My parents!” Her eyes were shining. “We put their memories back! They know who I am again, and they want to come home to England!” 

“Really?” Harry seemed taken aback. “Your parents? That’s great! You mean you restored their memories and everything?” 

She nodded, beaming, and a tear rolled down her cheek. “I’m sorry to bother you; I called Grimmauld Place first, but you weren’t home. I didn’t know if my Patronus would make it and I don’t think owls go that far.” 

“Where are you?” Percy came towards the fireplace. “Is this a registered call?” 

“Er…” the expression on Hermione’s face said she had hacked in somehow. 

“Nevermind that,” said Harry, waving Percy aside in an effort to save her from potential legal trouble. “So your parents have their memories back! That’s brilliant! I’m so happy for you.” 

“Thanks!” Hermione grinned. 

“Does that mean you’re in Australia?” Harry asked. 

Hermione’s head bobbed up and down. “I won’t be able to make it to Christmas dinner after all; sorry for the late notice.” 

“How did you even get there? Can you apparate that far?” 

Hermione wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know, actually. The regulations for Magical travel were too confusing and required advance applications. We dressed up as Muggles and used a Confundus charm to get on an airplane.” 

“We?” 

“Er...me. Just me.” Hermione shook her head. 

“Right. Well. Brilliant! I can’t wait to meet them. Are you coming back soon?” 

Hermione nodded. “It might take a week or so to get their papers in order, but they want to come home as soon as possible.” 

They could hear footsteps on Hermione’s end now, which halted suddenly. “My lands!” said a woman. “Why has she got her head in the fireplace?” 

“To communicate with a friend without sending her entire body,” replied a familiar, drawling voice. 

“Who’s that?” Harry’s brow furrowed. 

Hermione’s face blanched. The voices continued behind her. 

“Oh my,” said a woman. “So you’re saying her face is physically in England right now?” 

“Yeah, and the rest of her could be too, if you gave her a good shove.” 

Harry leaned forward, his expression unreadable. “Is that—is that Draco Malfoy?” 

“Er…” Hermione’s face got smaller as she shrank back a little from the fire. 

“Hermione, have you taken Draco with you to Australia?” 

Hermione looked around the room, biting her lip. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you wanted to go back to Australia? Ginny and I would’ve gone with you.” 

“Yeah, but you didn’t know how to fix them.” Hermione looked defensive. “I wasn’t sure it was going to work. It didn’t last time. Besides, it was sort of last minute.” 

In the distance, her mother was asking why Hermione didn’t just use a telephone. 

The other person asked what that was. Molly leaned forward—the voice was unmistakably Draco’s. 

“Well, you use it for calls, and such.” 

“Oh, so sort of like the Floo.” 

“Well, yes, but there’s no risk of burning yourself. And they make them portable, now.” 

“Like tiny fireplaces?” 

Hermione pulled out of the fire for a moment. _“Could you go do that somewhere else?”_ She hissed. 

“Sorry,” they both responded. The footsteps faded away and Hermione’s head re-appeared in the flames. 

“Sorry about that,” she said, looking flustered. “Er, where were we?” 

“How did you figure out how to fix your parents’ memories?” Harry asked. 

“Er, that. Well, um, yeah.” Hermione looked a little embarrassed. “Er, Narcissa...Malfoy...sort of invented this way of forcing the truth out of people, during the war. Like on, er, Robards, before the Death Eaters killed him. And he’d been obliviated for his own safety before he was captured, so since she was able to break through that Draco suggested...well....” 

Ron was aghast. “You let Draco torture the memories out of your parents?!” 

“No!” Hermione’s face somehow burned redder. “It wasn’t torture at all. It barely even hurt. I wouldn’t have let him do it if it was going to hurt them.”

“You let him use Dark Magic on your own parents!” Ron leaned away from the fire, horrified. Molly found herself thinking that if he hadn’t been over her before, he certainly was now. 

“I know it sounds bad, but it wasn’t, really, Ron,” Hermione pleaded. “It was sort of beautiful, when they started to remember things. And they’re so happy now. They’re furious at me for obliviating them in the first place, but they’re so relieved and grateful to have their memories back.”

“How did you do it?” Harry asked, his face inscrutable. 

“It’s just Veritaserum and Legilimency.” Hermione looked at Ron, who still looked livid. “Really, Ron, it wasn’t painful. That’s not the part that hurt Robards.” 

Ron shook his head. “Disgusting, Hermione. Disgusting.” 

“How did you even get Veritaserum?” Percy interjected. “It’s a Class II controlled substance.” 

“Yeah; you can get permits for Class II,” Hermione shot back. “The point is, Harry, they’re fine. I’m sorry I didn’t ask your permission.” Her voice was starting to sound bitter. 

Harry shook his head. “Don’t be like that. You know that’s not what I mean. We’re just surprised, is all. But very, very happy for you. I know how much you’ve wanted this.” 

“Yeah,” said Hermione. Her face softened. “Thanks, Harry. I’ve missed them terribly.” 

“Yeah, I know,” said Harry gently. “Happy Christmas, Hermione.” 

“Thanks.” She smiled a little, trying to avoid Ron’s eyes still boring into her. “I should go. My dad wants...er, we’re going to dinner. Again.” 

“Hermione—” 

“Happy Christmas!” and she was gone. 

Harry sat back on his haunches, staring into the fire. 

“Merlin’s beard,” said Ginny, breaking the silence. She giggled, shaking her head. “It’s a Christmas miracle!” 

Harry shook his head. “I’m so confused. Did she say anything to you?” 

“Yeah, she said she’d have Christmas dinner waiting for us when we got home, same as she told you.” 

“Well, I guess I’d better try and summon Pigwidgeon back before he drowns in the Pacific,” said Ron, his voice flat. 

Molly realized she had been holding her breath and let it go at last. “She’s gone with Malfoy?” 

Harry raised his eyebrows, still looking at the fire. “Apparently.” 

“Is there some catch behind how she’s getting the funding for the Department?” 

“Mum!” Ginny chastised her. “You have got to stop spreading rumours. I mean, she completely chewed me out for what you said last week.” 

Molly threw up her hands in dismay, _Witch Weekly_ falling open on her lap to a full-page spread of Celestina Warbeck and the ripped Centaur who was supposedly her lover. “What, you mean to tell me I can’t talk at all?” 

“Not until you’re sure!” 

“Wait,” said Arthur, his chin in his hand. “So is there something going on?” 

Harry shook his head. “I don’t know. He’s come to Grimmauld Place for cocoa a couple of times, just to talk about work, but it all seemed very professional. I mean, they are friends, but...she didn’t tell me she was going to Australia, either.” 

“I still think there is,” said Ginny, wrapping her arms around her knees. Her hair was all staticky. “But don’t any of you lot dare go mentioning that to her, or I’ll bat-bogey hex you.” 

Ron was still staring at the fire, shaking his head slowly back and forth. “She used Dark Magic on her Muggle parents,” he said grimly. 

“It didn’t sound that dark,” said Ginny. “Veritaserum and Legilimency are both legal.” 

“But controlled,” Percy added. 

“Yeah, but legal. It’s really unfair to call it torture. Right, Harry?” She to Harry for support. He was looking at the floor. 

“I dunno,” he said, considering. “I mean, it depends. I found Legilimency extremely painful, not to mention invasive. Of course, that was Snape trying to get into my head, and I was trying to resist it. I dunno what the potion would do to your mental barriers; it might make it completely painless.” 

Ron shuddered. “Still, I can’t imagine a worse person to let go rooting around a Muggle’s memories.” 

“That’s a bit far, Ron,” said Harry. “Hermione’s very sensitive to that. She wouldn’t have asked him if she didn’t trust his reaction. They’re her memories too; it’s her parents.” 

“Don’t any of you ever obliviate me,” said Molly, feeling a sudden needless urge to clarify her feelings on the topic. “I’d rather die. Let’s just make that clear.” 

“Yeah, Mum’s right!” said Ron, sitting up with sudden fervor. “Obliviation ought to be a crime for Muggle parents, too. It’s a justice issue. I’ll bet she had to recuse herself because the Wizengamot found out she’s got terrible morals.” 

“No, no, she said it was something involving Lucius but she wouldn’t say what,” Molly interjected, earning herself a glare from Ginny., 

“Yeah!” Ron sounded angry and desperate. He rose to his feet. “It’s that damn Malfoy boy. I knew I shouldn’t have let him around her. He’s seduced her! He’s seduced her with his money, and now he’s drawing her over to worse and worse things. If I were still an Auror, I’d have her investigated.” 

Harry stood up and turned on him, his eyes flashing. “Don’t you dare.” 

Ron stared him down for a moment, but then he took a seat, defeated. 

Molly’s wand began to sing at that point. 

“Oh!” She hastened to wave it off. “The turkey’s ready. We can have dinner now.” 

“Hooray,” said Ginny despondently, apparently no longer as hungry as she had been. 

“I’ve lost my appetite,” Ron muttered as he passed Molly on his way into the kitchen. 

Still, she put a brave face on and went to find the basket of Christmas crackers.


	19. The Grouchy Gremlin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco and Hermione are back from Australia and are having to explain themselves to everyone under the sun. _Ron Weasley and the Spigots_ book a half-decent time slot.

Work at the Ministry resumed the day after New Year’s, and Harry sent out a press release for the new Department in time for the earliest editions.

The morning after, Arthur didn’t wait for Molly to come down to the kitchen to tell her the news. He marched right back up the three little stairs at the back of the house into the bedroom and sat down next to her, shaking the _Daily Prophet in her face._

“Molly! Wake up; they’re famous again!” 

Molly opened her eyes blearily. “Wot?” She found herself suddenly confronted by a half-page photograph of Draco Malfoy, smiling shyly, looking small and apologetic. She groaned and clutched her head. “Arthur, it’s too early for this.” 

_“Wizarding World Gets a New Savior,”_ Arthur read aloud. _“Ex-Plotter Throws His Lot In With Potter.”_ He looked up. “Shall I go on?” 

“Blrrgh.” Molly rubbed her eyes. 

Arthur shook open the paper and began to read. _“Draco Malfoy, heir to the extensive Malfoy family fortune, announced this morning that he will be using that fortune to bankroll a new Department for Social Services at the Ministry for Magic. Minister for Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt signed off on the Department last week. The purpose of the Department: to encourage healing and integration among Magical people and creatures through check-ins and material assistance. Harry Potter has been appointed Minister of Magic for Social Services and Crisis Intervention, and Hermione Granger, Dark Arts Defence Quarterly’s “Brightest Witch of Her Generation,” will serve as Minister of Magic for Social Case Work. Mr Malfoy has also received a promotion from the Minister; he will be Chief Financial and Operating Officer for Insight, Resources and Transformation.”_

He looked at her over the top of the newspaper. “There’s more.” 

Molly clutched her head—this was a lot to take in. “Coffee, Arthur, please.” 

“It’s in the kitchen.” 

Molly rolled out of bed and pulled on her dressing gown and slippers, then trudged down into the kitchen. Arthur followed her, holding the Daily Prophet in front of him, continuing to read aloud. 

_“The appointment of Mr Malfoy to the Board comes as a surprise given his family history and record of involvement with the Death Eaters. When your correspondent visited Azkaban to obtain a quote from his father, Lucius Malfoy, eyes wide, said simply, “Noooo.” It was unclear if his ghostly complexion and inability to stop shaking were a reaction to the news or a side effect of his imprisonment. When asked for a comment, Narcissa Malfoy replied that would we please “Get out of my hydrangeas and leave me in peace.””_

Molly snorted. 

“Right?” Arthur grinned. “But there’s a bit more. _It is an additional shock that Ron Weasley, erstwhile third member of the friend group, will not be involved in the Department for Social Services in any capacity. Mr Weasley recently quit his job as an Auror to form a band to better document his split from Miss Granger; Ron Weasley and the Spigots has booked a biweekly spot at The Leaky Cauldron and can be seen late night on Mondays and Tuesdays.”_

Arthur folded the paper shut. “What do you think?” 

“Lovely bit of press for our Ron,” said Molly sarcastically, yawning into her coffee. 

Arthur sat down across from her. “I can’t believe he’s actually gone and done it.” 

“Who, Ronald? He told me last night he’s made fifty galleons so far. Course, most of that had to go to Luna and Kreacher…” 

“No, no, I mean Malfoy. I mean, he’s actually gone and pledged the Malfoy family fortune to help better the lot of Muggleborns and Squibs. This has got to be historic or something.” 

Molly raised her eyebrows. “Yeah.” It sounded like it, but her brain was too foggy to think through the implications right now.” 

“Right, well, I’d better be off,” said Arthur, standing up and pulling on his overcoat. “Make sure you page through the rest of it; there’s some commentary. And turn on the wireless. George owled me an hour ago to say Lee Jordan might have booked Malfoy on his radio show.” 

“Have a nice day, darling,” said Molly. Arthur swooped in to kiss her on the cheek before heading out the door to apparate. After he was gone, she pulled the paper towards her and opened it. Sure enough, it was full of headlines about the new Department. 

_“Harry Potter: The Boy Who Lived to Meddle Another Day?”_ proclaimed one, by Bartimaeus Bibble, who seemed to be of the opinion that Harry’s announced plan of occasional home visits was legally and morally dubious. 

_“Malfoy Back from Muggle-Loving Holiday,”_ said one in the gossip section, featuring a photo sent in by an English witch who had apparently been traveling and caught a snapshot of Draco running across Bondi Beach, clothed in a Hawaiian shirt and sunglasses. 

_“Brightest Witch of Her Generation or Dastardly Dimwit?”_ asked another, arguing that Hermione’s co-leadership of the Department was either a blessing for wizardkind or the first step on the road to fascism. 

Molly frowned as she read them. The reactions seemed a bit less than positive, despite a fervent defense of the idea from Kingsley Shacklebolt himself in the Op-Ed section. 

“Hermione’s back from Australia,” Ginny announced, flopping into the kitchen in her slippers and dressing gown. “Oh, you’ve seen.” 

“Yes, it’s quite a lot of press already, isn’t it?” Molly turned the page to the _“As Told in the Alley”_ section. 

Ginny shrugged. “Yeah, but that’s by design for once. Harry’s spent ages sending embargoed information to reporters. Now it’s just time to hope Draco and Hermione don’t draw too much attention to themselves and completely overshadow the Department.” 

“It seems difficult not to,” said Molly, tracing her finger underneath a quote from an anonymous wizard apparently interviewed in Knockturn Alley. _“‘It’s unpopular to say it in this day and age, but that boy is a blood traitor.’_ Relative of Malfoy’s, d’you reckon?” 

“I dunno.” Ginny buttered a piece of toast. “The Department is definitely bringing all sorts of tensions to light, that’s for sure. You know, what with her being a Muggleborn and him being a Death Eater and Harry being the destroyer of the old Pureblood order. Harry thinks it’s a good thing to get it all out in the open.”

“That’s a lot of potential enemies for each of them,” said Molly, folding the paper and tossing it on the table, but she felt a little stir of pride inside her. 

Ginny shrugged and swallowed a bite of toast. “Yeah, well, they’ve got a full ten hours of wireless interviews booked today to try and win some support.” 

“Ten hours!” Molly’s eyes grew wide. That even sounded exhausting. 

“I know, right?” Ginny poured herself a cuppa and joined Molly at the table. “Harry’s been workshopping talking points for them. They’re supposed to steer things away from Australia, since Percy says that might not have been totally legal; they’re to not mention the memory charms because that could affect Narcissa’s upcoming trial; and they’re supposed to emphasize the Muggle roots of the Department idea to head off any accusations that Draco might be involved to help Purebloods.” 

Molly frowned. “I wouldn’t mind seeing Narcissa face some consequences for what she helped do to Robards.” 

Ginny polished off the rest of her toast. “Yeah, well, that’s a bit of a sore spot with Draco, apparently. Although actually they’ve had a bit of a falling out.” 

“Him and his mother?” 

“Yeah.” She headed over to the door and started pulling her Quidditch boots on. “Apparently he told her he was going with Hermione to Australia, but she didn’t believe him. It wasn’t like she was alone for Christmas—she had Andromeda and Teddy and Ted Tonks over, because they’ve all made up, I guess—but she’s furious with him for missing it and has kicked him out of the Manor. So he might be staying at Grimmauld Place for a bit, or the Leaky Cauldron if he doesn’t feel like bunking with Harry and Hermione.” 

Molly raised her eyebrows. “If he picks either one, Ron’ll blow a gasket. He’s performing at the Grouchy Gremlin tonight, and the Leaky Cauldron tomorrow.” 

“Yeah, I know,” said Ginny, lacing up the knee-high boots. “Harry wants to take me. He says it’ll be a nice relaxing outing after all the interviews.” 

“That’s brilliant! Your father and I are going too, if he hasn’t got to work late.” 

“Wonderful!” Ginny straightened up and dusted off her hands. “I’ll see you there; let’s be sure and sit together.” 

* * *

Molly decided to have a listen to some of the radio interviews while she did the laundry. 

She turned the dial of the wireless, and _Norbert Nobb’s News at Nine_ crackled into clarity. 

“So what are social services, exactly?” Nobb was asking. 

“It’s a very broad field, actually.” Hermione’s voice came into focus. “But we’re starting small. For the moment it’s just going to be an extension of the Auror Department’s post-war integration efforts.” 

“Yeah, but we just want to hear from everybody,” said Harry. “We’re not splitting it into former Death Eaters or risk categories or anything. We want to hear from _you._ How has your life changed since the war? Are you doing all right? Is your place of business operational again? If not, would a loan from the Ministry help? That sort of thing.” 

“So you’re handing out money,” said Nobb. “I think our listeners will like that!” 

“Er, that’s not entirely accurate,” said Hermione. “We’ve got a fund to help those who really need it. But for this to be fair, it’s got to go to genuine needs.” 

“Mr. Malfoy? You’re from a wealthy pureblood line. What do you think of all this?” 

Molly tensed up a bit in spite of herself, pausing in the middle of charming Arthur’s work shirts to scrub themselves on the washboard. 

“I think it’s brilliant,” said Draco. 

“Brilliant?” Nobb sounded surprised. 

“Yeah,” said Draco. “You know, I’ve learned a lot lately. I really didn’t understand the concept of social work until I talked to some of the Muggles. Hermione’s parents; they’re as brilliant as she is, in their own world. They introduced us to an old friend of theirs who is what’s called a _Cases Worker;_ they make sure people are doing okay and that those who aren’t, children who are being abused for example, can be taken and placed temporarily with a loving family instead of being stuck or winding up in an orphanage or something.” 

“So you’re coming to take our children?” Nobb piped up accusatorily. 

Molly sploshed the shirts into the rinsing water. It sounded like making the Department understood was going to be an uphill battle. She still wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about it herself, honestly; she would have resented a visit from a Ministry worker when she was a young mother just trying to keep her children from tormenting each other, that was for sure. 

“No, no,” said Harry. “What we’re doing is making sure those who are already orphans, for example, get put in the right place. I’m drawing on my own personal experience here. I was raised by my extended family, but they isolated me from the Wizarding World and mistreated me and harmed me. Our Department is going to check on children like me and give them a chance to speak up about what’s really going on behind closed doors.” 

“So what’s the Muggle system like?” Nobb asked. 

“Er, well, it depends on which system you’re talking about,” said Hermione. 

“Yeah, it’s quite large, apparently,” said Draco. “And most of their countries have their own.” 

“All of them, I think,” said Hermione. “Or some watered down version of it, at least.” 

“And that works well for them?” Nobb’s voice was a bit accusatory. “It keeps them safe, and everything? Because I’ve got right here on the desk in front of me a report of a little girl who was murdered in a country called _Idaho.”_

“Actually, all the Muggles we met kept talking about how there were so many problems in their system,” said Draco calmly. “There’s arguments about it in their world, too, and the programs are often underfunded. They all seemed upset that it wasn’t already working better.” 

Molly softened a bit towards him as she magicked a clothesline to pin itself around the kitchen—it was far too cold out to let the clothes dry outside. 

Draco was still talking. “But all Hermione and I could think was how wonderful it is that they look after each other like that. We haven’t got anything like that, in the Wizarding World. Er, not yet we haven’t. Because we’re starting one now! Which...er, well, you knew that, obviously, to have us on the show. But it’s going to be a lot of hard work to get it off the ground. Me and Hermione and Harry are so excited, though. It’s going to do a lot of good for the world, and kids like Harry.” 

“Brilliant,” said Nobb. “There you have it folks, Mr. Malfoy just wants to help kids like Harry. But not Harry himself; I’ve got an anonymous source what says he was terrible to him at school. That’s all the time we have. Next up, it’s all your portkey licensing auction questions answered, with Morvina Mimblewimble.”

He booted them off the show before anyone had a chance to respond. 

Molly changed the channel while she hung up the rest of the clothes, finding them again on _Gilbert’s Gossip Hour._ This time Gilbert wanted to know if the rumors were true that Wizarding Britain was about to turn into a police state, and Hermione deftly allayed his concerns. 

“Thanks very much; she really is the brightest witch of her generation,” he said as he sent them off the show. “Next up, Celestina Warbeck’s publicist, here to answer if the rumors are true.” 

Molly skipped the next Department interview to listen with interest as the publicist faced off against a conspiracy theorist who was convinced she had seen the famous singer leaving St. Mungo’s with a half-horse child, and moved to the living room to get some knitting done at the same time. She was soon interrupted by an owl from George, who said that he and Angelina would not be able to make it to Ron’s concert after all as her parents had asked them to dinner, but to please go and support Ron. He added an postscript that she should tune in to _Potterwatch,_ as Lee Jordan had managed to book Draco Malfoy alone and “this should be entertaining.” 

Molly checked the time and switched on the wireless, feeling a little nervous about what she was about to hear. 

“Aaaaand welcome back to _Potterwatch!”_ Lee Jordan intoned. “Your favorite wartime show doesn’t have to end just because Old Voldy’s gone moldy. Today I’ve got with me Draco Malfoy, who’s currently known for starting a Department for Social Services with our titular Mr. Potter.” 

“Hello,” said Draco, sounding a bit nervous to be interviewed without his friends. 

“So, Mr. Malfoy, let’s get right down to business. Our listeners are dying to know: how did you go from being a slimy little git to a big-hearted philanthropist in just a few short years?”

“I’m sorry?” 

Molly buried her head in her knitting—this was going to be brutal if Draco didn’t know how to take a joke. 

“You, Mr. Malfoy. We went to school together; how did you graduate from slimy githood to philanthropy?” 

“Well, slimy I’ll admit to; the hair gel was a bit overboard. But I think git is a necessary phase in everyone’s development, don’t you?”

“Are you calling me a git?” But Molly knew Lee Jordan well, and it sounded like he was grinning now. 

“That depends; do you think McGonagall had probable cause the seven times she almost fired you from being Quidditch commentator?” 

Lee laughed. “Hear that, listeners? Old River’s performances were just a bit too spectacular for the Professor.” 

“Insulting your head of house, are you? Professor McGonagall, if you’re listening, I have nothing but the utmost respect for you. Mr. Jordan, on the other hand—” 

“Careful, Malfoy; she’s Headmistress now.” 

“And a _brilliant_ job she’s doing.” 

“Oh, shove it; that’s been enough flattery for one day. Back to this news of yours.” 

“Yes.” 

“Jumping on Potter’s bandwagon, are you?” 

“Yes; why not? It’s a very nice wagon he’s got.” 

“So, tell me, about the Department: will your father hear about this?” 

Draco laughed richly. “He’ll hear about it when he has a glance at the bank statements.” 

“Do you tell your father much these days?” 

“Only the highlights.” 

“Does he know you were in Australia?” 

Draco feigned surprise. “Was I?” 

“There was a photo of you in the _Daily Prophet_ this morning, says you were in Australia. It’s got you in some very short cutoffs. Dashing bit of kit, wouldn’t you say?” 

“Oh, I dunno; clearly the photographer thought so, given the angle.” 

“She your girlfriend?” 

“No, I’m afraid I’ve never met her.” 

“Tell me, Malfoy, have you got a girlfriend?” 

“Have _you?”_

“No, I haven’t, thank you very much for asking in front of everyone. Moving on. How was it Down Under?” 

“Well, it was all upside down, Lee. Everything. We had to have dinner on the ceiling. Bit alarming, really.”

“Is that so?”

“Gullible little bugger, aren’t you?”

“Aren’t you a smug twat.” It sounded like Lee Jordan clapped him on the back. “Lovely, lovely. But let’s be serious a minute.” 

“Yes.” 

“Now, you _have_ got a bit of a family history of nastiness around maintaining so-called ‘blood purity.’ Your aunt Lestrange, and everything.” 

“Yes, and I’m not proud of it,” said Draco seriously. 

“So tell me.” Lee wasn’t joking anymore—he sounded curious, and open. “The Malfoy family fortune. Harry wants to use it to help half-bloods, and Muggleborns, and even their Muggle parents. Why have you decided to let him?” 

“It honestly didn’t happen overnight,” said Draco. “I rather wish it had, actually. I think before the war even started there was a certain amount of overwhelming disillusionment that came from getting too, well, involved. I know a lot of people found the visions of a pureblood society attractive, but it was cruel and ugly and awful when you got up close. And then it was still cruel and terrible when you stepped away again. It’s an ideology that traps you. But it was one thing to hear elderly relatives going on about it, and sort of another when you’re suddenly a slave of the...him, er, you know…” 

“Voldemort,” said Lee. “We say his name on this show. Say it.” 

“Vol…” Draco stopped. “I can’t.” 

“Start with Moldy Voldy; it’s easier.” 

“Voldy. Voldy the Moldy.” Draco laughed, sounding self-conscious. 

“Now add the other bit.”

“Volde…”

“C’mon, you can do it.”

“Voldemort.” He grinned. “Wow. That is powerful to say.” 

Lee laughed triumphantly. “Therapy, ladies and gentlemen! Let’s take a moment of loudness to scream that name out all around Britain. Old Voldy’s got no power over us anymore.” 

“Voldemort,” Molly announced to the living room in solidarity. 

“Eee!” Screeched baby ghost Fred in answer from another room. He smashed something on the floor. 

“So, you’re over all this blood business and learning from Muggles now, are you?” 

“Yeah. You know, I’m not sure if I’d ever actually met a Muggle before last week,” Draco answered.

“What did you think of them?” 

“Lovely. They’re lovely. Y’know, Hermione makes a lot more sense after meeting them; I can see where she gets a lot of it.” 

“Like what?” 

“Her...well, her general sense of put-together-ness, if I can clumsily describe it that way.” 

“That is a clumsy way of putting it.” 

Draco laughed. “I mean, her parents, and the other Muggles we’ve met, they’re very...it’s like they think of a problem, and they have this way of going about it. It’s rigid, but it’s not in a bad way.”

Lee shook his head. “Not following you.”

Draco tried again. “I mean, it’s not trying spells until one works or adjusting the magic; it’s really getting to _know_ the problem, because—being Muggles—they’re going to have to solve it in reference to that...that thing, whatever it is.”

“Still no.”

“Sorry, I’m rubbish at descriptions. But Hermione, the way she’s organized, and thoughtful, and focused, and determined—she gets all that from her parents. They need it for drilling teeth. Fascinating stuff.” 

“Fascinating, indeed. Well, you heard it here first, folks—Mr. Malfoy’s latest repudiation of blood ideology. Call up the Department if you’ve got concerns or feel you’re being mistreated by someone in your life.” 

“If you need help,” Draco cut in. 

“Right. That’s a better way of putting it. Well, thanks ever so much for your time, Mr. Malfoy. It’s been great having you on _Potterwatch._ Don’t be a stranger; you’re not half as horrible as I remember you.” 

Draco laughed richly. “Same to you, Jordan. Glad to hear you’re still on the old airwaves.” 

“And that’s all for today, folks. Today’s trivia question is Name That Death Eater. What minion of darkness fled the white hand of justice and is currently hiding in Romania? If you know, send us an owl, please; the Ministry is still looking for him. Anyone who helps catch him wins a year’s supply of Skiving Snackboxes, courtesy of _Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes,_ plus a vintage _U-No-Poo_ poster. Now it’s time to cede this frequency to _Adventures in Arithmancy,_ the show that teaches you—blimey, I can’t even get through their ad. It’s a horribly dull program, I suggest you switch it off while you can—” 

“Jordan!” There was the sound of someone stomping into the studio. 

“Right, there he is, the man himself, Adalbert the Awful. So sorry you lot have him up next.” 

“If you don’t stop that this instant—” 

“Right, right, sorry, Mr. Adalbert sir. I’m leaving—” Lee hit the button for his closing music, which sounded like a sped-up version of something Ron might have written. Adalbert was yelling something in the background, so Molly couldn’t quite make it out. “Signing off now!” 

“Hello, listeners, and welcome to _Adventures in Arithmancy,”_ said a smooth, buttery voice. Adalbert was apparently trying to pretend he had not lost his temper at Lee just moments before. 

Molly switched off the wireless. She didn’t entirely remember what Arithmancy was, and she had no interest in refreshing her memory. 

“Well!” She exclaimed to the empty room. She had to admit she was a little impressed with Draco’s interviews. Now, if they could just get a bill passed to sort out their legal authority… 

* * *

Molly headed down to Diagon Alley that evening, wrapped in a wool traveling cloak. Arthur was having to work late after all, cleaning up the mess from overly exuberant Wizarding New Year’s celebrations. 

There were just a couple of people out on the high street tonight, done up in coats and scarves and hurrying to the various pubs for warmth. Floating lights and green boughs gave the street a cheery holiday feel. Molly smiled in the direction of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes before heading the opposite way down the street. 

The Grouchy Gremlin was a little past Gringotts, on the right side where Diagon Alley forked in two at the bank. She hadn’t been inside it in years. She pushed the door open, and little sleigh bells pinned to the top jangled merrily. The Grouchy Gremlin was a bit dustier and less well-kempt than the Leaky Cauldron, but its three enormous blazing fireplaces gave it a warm, cozy atmosphere.

She ordered a gin and tonic from the proprietor, a friendly woman in a green pointed hat who Molly recognized vaguely as having been a Seventh Year when Molly first started at Hogwarts, and settled down in an empty table in the corner. The bar was starting to fill up, and she saw Kreacher’s bass drum was already in place on a little stage in the back. _“Ron Weasley and the Spigots, Live Tonight,”_ proclaimed a hand-drawn sign propped up on the corner of the stage. Molly thought she recognized Luna’s touch—below the letters was a little watercolor logo of a girl, a boy, and a house-elf being pumped out of a faucet. 

She looked about for a clock, but didn’t see one. Harry and Ginny were running late; the show was starting any minute. As if on cue, Ron emerged from the back with a guitar. Molly joined in the scant applause; he took the stage and bowed. Kreacher came next, struggling a bit to get past the heavy velvet curtain, and glared at the audience, looking like he would rather be anywhere else. Last came Luna, floating in like a cloud. She adjusted the microphone and smiled.

“Hello everybody,” said Luna, her voice as breathy as ever. She was wearing a floor-length white dress with voluminous ruffles, which she had paired with a black leather motorcycle jacket. Her long blonde hair flowed down her back in crimped waves. “We’re _Ron Weasley and the Spigots._ You might know us from the Leaky Cauldron. And I’m happy to report we’ve just booked a slot on the _Incandescent Insomniac_ show on the Wizarding Wireless Network; you can find us on the radio from two to four in the morning and get to know us there, too.” 

Scattered applause rose from the crowd. Molly put her hands together, but any sound they would have made was muffled by her gloves. 

“Thank you, thank you.” Luna smiled dreamily. “Tonight is a very special night, because we’re going to be performing Ron’s newest song. It’s an emergency song. It’s a song he wrote because he had something to tell the world. Are you ready, Kreacher?” 

Kreacher, almost completely dwarfed by a lone bass drum, nodded. 

“He says we’re ready. I give you... _Over the Grange. Er._ There’s an ‘r’ at the end of the title, you see; Ron’s got it in parentheses on the flyers, if you got one on the way in. If you did get one, now would be a good time to have a glance at it so you can see what I mean.” 

Molly cringed. There was some ruffling of papers around her. 

“All right. Here we go. And a one, two, one, three, four... _They say that a Grange is a country house_  
_I say it’s a girl with brown hair…”_

Molly nodded along with the song, wishing Arthur or George were there with her. The acoustics were rather better than they had been on Christmas morning; someone must have cast an amplification charm on the instruments. 

It ended, and Luna did a little flourish with her hands. “That’s just a little taste of what is to come,” she said. “Ron’s having a bit of a issue with his guitar string. We’ll be back in a moment with more. And we do take requests, so long as it’s something we’ve written. Don’t be shy!”

The band trundled off. Ron looked annoyed, carrying his guitar in the back to try and get some better light. 

The door burst open, the bells jangling angrily, sending cold air whipping into the pub. Molly looked around to see Harry. He made a beeline for her and sat down without saying anything. 

“Harry, you all right?” Molly leaned over to get a better look at him, alarmed. His brow was wrinkled and there was a dark look in his eyes.

“He’s churning with internal conflict,” said Ginny, coming back from the bar with two butterbeers. “We came home from work this evening and walked in on Hermione snogging Malfoy.”

“What?” Molly practically jumped out of her skin. “Snogging Malfoy? _Really?”_

Ginny nodded vigorously. “Uh-huh. I totally called it! Everyone thought I was crazy, but I knew.” 

“My.” Molly shook her head to clear it. “So that’s why she got off the case, then.” 

“No, no, there’s this whole conspiracy, apparently.” Ginny looked around and dropped her voice. “She admitted she’s found evidence Lucius Malfoy is bribing his lawyer.”

“Shh!!” Harry whipped around to face them. “Someone might hear!”

“Her old boss?” Molly looked at Harry, then at Ginny. “How?”

“It’s a whole network,” said Ginny. “And it’s more than just her boss. He’s got a plan to stack the jury, too. _And_ he’s paid off the judge. According to Hermione, it might even go as high as the Minister.”

“Not Kingsley!” Molly couldn’t imagine the upstanding Auror she had fought alongside taking a bribe from the likes of Lucius Malfoy.

Ginny shook her head ominously. “Hermione didn’t think so either, but he ordered her not to do anything to stop Lucius. Said he’ll switch out the judges at the last minute. _That’s_ why she recused herself.”

Molly let this sink in a minute, then a thought occurred to her. “Where does Draco factor into all this?”

“Well, he’s not in favor of the bribe,” said Ginny. “He seems to think if he can liquidate his fortune fast enough to pay for our Department, there won’t be enough money left to pay off the court.”

“Do you think that will work?”

Harry shook his head. “There’s a lot of money in that fortune.”

Molly sat back, confused. “So what part of this has to do with Hermione kissing Draco?”

“We’re not sure how it connects,” said Ginny. “According to them, they just like each other. Apparently Draco figured he could use his mum’s method to restore her parents’ memories. She hadn’t come across it in her research because it’s Dark Magic. But she couldn’t resist and dragged him off to Australia.”

“And it worked, right?” Molly clarified, remembering what Hermione had said through the Floo Network on Christmas morning.

“Oh, yeah, they’re fine now. But they got together in Australia. They’ve sworn up and down that it won’t affect their working together.” Ginny grinned. “I think it’s sweet.”

“How so?”

“Oh, I dunno; he’s smart, she’s smart; he can actually keep up with her. Did you know he was always second in their year, right behind her all through their years in Hogwarts?”

“Was he?”

“Oh, yes.” Ginny nodded. “Used to make him furious, apparently, to be beaten by a girl and a Muggleborn. Course, now he thinks Muggles are brilliant. He’s turning into a regular Dad. Not sure how much of that is just him trying to impress Hermione.”

“What do you think of it?” Molly asked Harry. He was still staring off into space, looking conflicted. He lifted his gaze and sighed, thinking.

“I dunno,” he said. “On the one hand, I was almost starting to like Draco. He’s been really helpful. He definitely seems reformed. Nice, arguably.” He slumped forward, looking exhausted. 

“But?” Molly prompted him. 

“I dunno. It’s not very good of me; I should just be happy for them. But it feels like just as he and I were starting to become friends, suddenly he’s running off with her to another country and neither of them are telling me, and they took my clothes to dress up as Muggles with because none of the shops were open to buy their own, and then I come home and they don’t say anything about even liking each other, and suddenly he’s got his shirt off in my living room and...it’s just a lot. I’ll get there. But it’s just a lot.”

Molly nodded, tersely. “That is a lot.”

Harry shook his head. “I mean, I know it must have been awkward for Ron, coming around the corners at Hogwarts and catching me and Ginny snogging, but—“

“Harry!” Ginny smacked him on the arm. “That’s my Mum you’re talking to!”

Molly laughed. Oh, if they only knew the sorts of trouble she and Arthur had gotten into back in their day....But it wouldn’t do to tell them; that would unravel any sort of disciplinary hold she might have over them.

Harry looked up, bleary-eyed. “Sorry.”

The band trundled back on stage then.

“And we are back,” said Luna dreamily into the microphone. “I hope this intermission has allowed you time to relax your auras. I’ve been noticing a lot of Wrackspurts at our concerts lately and we really ought to all work on that together; they feed off anxiety, you know. I recommend keeping a radish or other root vegetable displayed on your person at all times.” 

“Er, Luna…” Ron gestured at her to hurry it up. 

Luna shook her head. “Dear Ron. I’ve gone and made him a radish belt, but he’s still utterly infected. Well. They’re telling me it’s time to play our next song. This one is called _Brightest Witch of her Year._ Ready? One...two...three...four…” 

Kreacher started them off with a deep bass note, then came in with the tambourine on a quarter count. Luna began to sway gently with the rhythm, the ruffles on her dress bouncing softly as she moved. Behind her, Ron closed his eyes and opened with a deep, howling strum to his guitar. 

He let the howl fade away into echoes, then raised his arm to the heavens and brought it down for another loud note. Molly shuddered. 

Luna began to sing. _“She’s bright like the sun, my letter Ex_  
_But her brightness, it’s in her mind._  
_A Ravenclaw, she could have been_  
_But instead, for a time, she was mine.”_

THUN...THUN...THUN...THUN...went Kreacher’s drum. Ron opened his eyes and leaned in to a B chord. 

Luna’s voice rang out clearer than ever. _“You think you’re so clever, but you’ll need me forever…”_

Voices rose up to join hers, and Molly looked around, stunned. A couple of strangers were singing along. They seemed to know Ron’s words. 

_“You’re gone, but you won’t go far._  
_You think you’re so clever, but I’m yours forever_  
_I’m right here when you change your mind.”_

Molly felt a shiver of pride run through her. They liked her son’s music. His band was...good. 

Harry stared off into space all through the first five verses, then as Ron’s guitar came to a whining apex he leaned over to talk to Ginny and Molly. “I think it’s just that I’d really like for Hermione and Ron to be friends again,” he whispered. “I think that’s it. I’m not mad at Draco, not really. I’m just worried that if he and Hermione stay together, Ron and Hermione will never be friends again.”

“Yeah, Ron’d never speak to her again if he knew,” said Ginny, swaying along to Luna’s warbling soprano. Then she shook herself, like a dog out of water, and laid a gentle hand on Harry’s arm. “Sorry, Harry; that’s not want you wanted to hear. Of course they’re gonna talk to each other. He and Draco are gonna be best friends.”

Harry frowned. “It’s meant a lot to me, my friendship with Ron and Hermione. And I am coming to like Draco.”

“Yeah, he’s great for Exploding Snap,” said Ginny to Molly. “We played last time he came over for cocoa and a fireside chat.”

“And he seems decent, anymore.” Harry shrugged. “I mean, it was really, really nice of him to help Hermione get her parents’ memories back. He missed Christmas to do it. Missed it completely when they jumped the date line. And then they got back so late at night, and I’d gone and booked interviews all day today, like an idiot. I dunno when they were supposed to tell me they were seeing each other. It’ll be nice having him around, I guess. But...he’s not Ron.”

Ginny burst out laughing and tried to silence herself with her hand; she failed completely. “That’s the understatement of the century. Draco’s apparently been reading her epic Icelandic poetry on the beach in Australia, and here’s Ron really thinking quitting his job to play in a band is gonna win her back.”

Molly looked up at Ron. Some members of the crowd had lit their wand tips now, and were swaying along to his soulful guitar solo. Maybe musicians weren’t Hermione’s cup of tea, but she thought the witch ought to be at least a little impressed. 

Harry passed into silence for the rest of _Brightest Witch of Her Age,_ and stayed that way all through _S.P.E.W. You Too._ As Luna was just growling her way through the alto section of _House Elf Liberation Nation,_ he slammed both his palms down on the table. 

“All right. I’m good with it.” 

Ginny loudly sucked the dregs of her Cursed Russian through a straw. “Good with what?” 

“Draco.” Harry looked determined. “He’s a good guy. We can be friends; they can date if they want to. I’m gonna go let him know he’s welcome to spend the night.” 

“D’you have to go do that now?” Ginny looked up at him, anguished, holding her straw between her teeth. 

“I guess not.” Harry sat back down and glanced at his watch. “It’s getting late, though. We’ve got a meeting with our new lawyer in the morning.” 

“I’m going to stay til the end,” said Molly, looking wistfully at Ron, who had the rest of the patrons tapping their feet along to his fervent anthem about the need to end house elf serfdom. Kreacher had his arms crossed and seemed to be drumming along most unwillingly. 

“Yeah, I’d like to stay for at least one more song,” said Ginny, following her gaze. The band was rather hypnotic. 

But it turned out _Ron Weasley and the Spigots_ were determined to play their entire discography, which was surprisingly extensive considering the short amount of time they had been together. Three more songs and Ginny admitted it was time to tap out. 

“See you later, Mum,” she said, giving her a kiss on the cheek. 

“Goodnight,” said Molly, waving her off. Her gin and tonic long gone, she decided a small glass of dandelion wine would be a good end to the night and settled back in. She was thoroughly enjoying the setlist now. The bar was sleepy, but between the enjoyment on Ron’s face and the ambience he was bringing to the room, Molly was having a lovely time. It was also interesting to listen for Ron’s lyrics, because they were so much like a diary that she was getting lots of insight into his relationship with Hermione, more than she could ever have gotten by talking to him. 

“That is all,” said Luna at last, solemnly folding her hands in front of her. “Thank you for your time and attention.” 

An inebriated couple at the front took issue with this, shouting, “Encore! Encore!” Molly joined in. 

“One more, Mrs. Hopkins, if you don’t mind?” said Luna, leaning into the microphone. The proprietor gave her a thumbs up from behind the bar. “She says it’s all right. So back by popular demand, I give you... _Subconscious Child.”_

The crowd erupted in applause. Molly joined in, burning with pride for her son. 

_Subconscious Child_ was composed of a few simple chords from the guitar, a stirring but gentle beat on the tambourine, and Luna’s heartfelt singing.

 _“In the midnight of my heart, it appeared_  
_A vision of the future, awoken from my past_   
_A vision of a child; I thought it wouldn’t last_   
_Destiny is speaking._   
_I called it Hugo, called it Rose_   
_Called it Charles, Louisa, Jill_   
_I turned into a dragon_   
_And yet it haunts me still—_   
_I’ve come to think it always will.”_

Molly sniffed—perhaps it was the wine, but the thought of baby ghost Fred had her teary. 

_“Subconscious child, you drive me wild_  
_Body of a ghost; heart of a child_   
_You’re the power of my love_   
_And because she will not see_   
_You stay gray, subconscious, with me.”_

By the second chorus she had learned several of the words and was swaying and singing along under her breath. She decided then that was enough drinking for the night, and pushed the dandelion wine to the other side of the table out of reach of temptation. 

The song ended, and the patrons allowed _Ron Weasley and the Spigots_ to leave the stage this time, accompanied by cheers and some scattered tips. Molly made her way to the back to see Ron. 

He was putting away his guitar when he saw her. She threw her arms around him. 

“Oh, Ronald, you were wonderful! I am so proud.” 

“Thanks, Mum,” he murmured, his face turning red. “Er...you stayed?” 

“Of course. And _Luna!_ What a voice!” She hugged the girl, who was grinning in spite of herself. 

“Thanks, Mrs. Weasley.” 

“And Kreacher—” Kreacher glared at her, pure hatred in his gaze. Molly decided not to say anything to him after all. 

“You all right getting home, Mum?” Ron asked. “Need me to go with you?” 

Molly shook her head. “Only if you’re going back now; I don’t mean to ruin your fun.” 

“Right, thanks,” said Ron. “Mrs. Hopkins said we can have a free round if we’d like. You can stay if you’d like?” He looked like he didn’t really want her to say yes, so Molly shook her head. 

“That’s quite all right. I’ll see you tomorrow. Nicely done, again!” She waved to the little band and headed back through the bar, fastening her wool traveling cloak about her against the chill breeze. She stumbled out into Diagon Alley to apparate home, humming snatches under her breath, but just as she was turning something caught her eye down by the Leaky Cauldron. It was a very blond head, glinting in the light from the streetlamps. The young man held the door open for someone, then disappeared inside, the bells jangling. Molly wasn’t sure if it was really him or just her imagination, but the sight reminded her of what Ginny had said about Draco and Hermione. It must be some combination of that and the cold wind, but she felt much more sober all of a sudden. 

* * *

Molly came back to the Burrow, which was dark save for a light in the living room. She walked inside, and spied Arthur next to the lamp, working the crossword.

“Molly! How was Ron?” He set the paper aside and got up to give her a hug.

“Quite good, actually,” said Molly. “The crowd loved him. They knew all his songs and everything. I really think he might be able to make something out of this music business.”

“Really?” Arthur sat back down, looking surprised. “I’m sorry I missed it.”

Molly sat next to him, smoothing out her skirts. “How was your day?”

“Good, good.” He looked nervous for some reason. “Listen, Mollywobbles, don’t be mad…”

The hair stood up on the back of her neck and she glared at him prematurely. What had he done now?

“I know you don’t like him or his family, and I don’t like his family either, of course, but I, er...I had Draco in for tea today.”

Molly was startled. “What? Why, Arthur?”

“Well, he’d been to Australia, and they traveled like Muggles the whole time. And you know how Harry never talks to me about Muggles anymore, and Hermione hasn’t been over; I just wanted to ask him what that was like.” He shrank back, eyes darting nervously to gauge her reaction.

“Arthur!” Molly chided. “He’s dating Hermione! Ginny says she walked in on them snogging at Grimmauld Place.”

Arthur’s eyes got wide. “He did not mention that,” he said. “Although, that does explain why he said he was going with Hermione and her parents on a ski trip.”

“No; apparently they ran off to Australia together and now they’re—snogging, at least.”

“Well.” Arthur looked at the floor. “My. Does Ron know yet?”

“Of course not,” said Molly. “I’m not going to tell him while he’s still under this roof and we have to listen to him go on about it.”

“No, no; that wouldn’t do.” Arthur shuddered. “Draco’s actually...sort of...nice, though.” He looked at her hopefully. “He told me loads about Muggle society. He, er, he told me about the cab driver, and her parents—they’re dentists, which is like a Healer, but for teeth, and it takes longer—and the baggage handlers, and the people who sell food, and the neighbors. Did you know, he and Hermione went to Australia and they didn’t meet a single witch or wizard while they were there? There’s a magical community, of course, but Hermione just wanted to keep everything normal to help her parents.”

“I’m surprised he went along with it,” said Molly uncharitably.

“No, he says it was really interesting. He was impressed with their technology. They got their airplane to stay up for twenty hours with no help from magic. And he says there’s this new Muggle invention where they’ve made a sort of magical glass plate, and they have it mounted in a box, like a...like a television; you know what those are?”

Molly nodded.

“Well, they can conjure up information on this glass plate, and they can use it to talk to people all across the world! It’s fascinating! Draco says they call it _The Internment.”_

“Good for them,” said Molly. “I hope he’s not about to drop by with a Muggle glass Internment box to try and win you over.” 

Arthur’s eyes shone. “D’you think he might?” He looked hopeful. 

“Oh, you,” Molly said, half scornfully and half tenderly. He would love that, and she knew it. “I’m going to bed. Goodnight, love.” 

“Goodnight. I’ll be in in a minute.” 

She kissed him and found her way back to the bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concert is inspired by Dora’s encouragement of Ron’s musical ambitions, so thank you Dora! I hope you like it :)  
> Also, I based Luna’s outfit on Stevie Nicks (who is an absolute legend) if you’d like a visual: [https://is3-ssl.mzstatic.com/image/thumb/Music/v4/5f/d6/7a/5fd67a08-3721-7581-b379-bb91b8432577/source/1200x1200bb.jpg]


	20. Confidences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny invites Hermione back to the Burrow. Molly accidentally lets something slip.

The next morning, Arthur was still excited about the conversation he had had with Draco about Muggles. He burst into the kitchen in his slippers and dressing gown, a determined look on his face. 

“Molly, I want you and me to go on a Muggle immersion trip.” 

“On a _what?”_ Molly spun around from the dishes to face him. 

“A Muggle immersion trip!” He looked at her like it was obvious, but was met with a look of consternation. “Like Hermione and Draco. We’ll just pick a country, and go, and not use any magic for a whole weekend. Perhaps we can get one of them to go with us and show us how it’s done.” 

Molly stared at him, wide-eyed. “You’re mental.” 

“Think about it, Molly!” Arthur hadn’t sounded this excited since the day he had worked out how to make the Ford Anglia fly. “It could be a sort of couples vacation. We could solve problems together, like how to get places without magic. Draco says navigation is very difficult in the Muggle world, because none of the portraits are equipped to give directions.” 

Molly wrinkled her forehead. “Then why can’t we just stay in our world, and get around plenty easily?” 

“But we always do that!” Arthur frowned. “Remember our honeymoon, when we broke into the Muggle flat?” 

“Because we were in hiding? Yes, I remember that.” She went back to scrubbing grease out of the frying pan. 

“Wasn’t that wonderful?” 

“It was.” Molly smiled fondly, remembering. It had been a very happy week. “But it wasn’t the flat that made us happy; I bet we would have been just as happy in a Hogwarts broom closet given that we were finally together.” 

“I loved the Muggle flat,” said Arthur simply. “I had so much fun being there with you.” 

Molly softened a little—she didn’t mean to put him down. “I did too. But why can’t we go away to Hogsmeade, or the shore, or Wizarding France?” 

“Because of the adventure, Molly! It would bring us even closer as a couple. One week in Muggle Australia made Draco and Hermione start dating; imagine the sort of sparks it could rekindle in us.” 

“So could time away at the shore,” said Molly, but she hated to see the look of disappointment on his face. “All right, maybe a short thing close by. I am not boarding a Muggle airplane no matter how many times you ask.” 

“Of course not.” Arthur shuddered, probably for her benefit. “I don’t trust the things. I mean, they seal you into a metal tube and rocket it thirty thousand feet above an ocean, and they have you breathing recycled air and eating meals out of plastic dishes…” He got a wistful look on his face. 

“No,” said Molly, smacking her dish towel on the counter. She gave him a kiss on her way into the living room. “But Normandy is a maybe.” There was a small Magical community there among the Muggles. 

Molly went through the living room and up the stairs to Percy’s old room, which she was using to store baby gifts for Bill and Fleur. She had brought down some of the old toys from upstairs, and had already completed three sets of tiny socks. She was itching to get started on a miniature Weasley jumper, but that had to wait until the child had a first initial. Fleur had said they were thinking Victoire for a girl and Dominique for a boy, but was refusing to find out the gender of the baby in advance (another Muggle innovation Arthur was utterly floored by.) Either V or D would look nice on a jumper, but Molly found both names a little French for her taste. She was already trying to think of nicknames. 

She magicked the knitting needles back into motion on the red and gold receiving blanket (she had no idea if the baby would be a boy or a girl, but it was definitely going to be a Gryffindor), and eased back into the mental difficulty of trying to come up with nicknames for her unborn grandchild. She had a feeling Fleur would veto either Vicky or Dommy, so perhaps a general nickname that didn’t have to do with the name…? 

Baby ghost Fred was in there, playing with the magical dollhouse her father had built. He had taken a set of balls and was rolling them down the moving staircases. 

She heard someone come in from the Floo Network below, which was odd because she didn’t remember inviting anyone over. There were some words she couldn’t make out, then two sets of feet ran up the stairs to Ginny’s room, which was situated directly above Percy’s. 

“So, what’s he like?” Ginny asked, giggling. Molly groaned and set down her knitting. It was wrong to eavesdrop, so she was going to have to go downstairs; she couldn’t infringe on her daughter’s privacy like that. 

“Magical,” replied a voice that sounded like Hermione’s. It was like an invisible hand trapped Molly in her chair. Maybe it was all right if she didn’t move _instantly…_

“Magical?” Ginny burst out laughing. Molly clutched the arms of her chair, pushing herself up as slowly as possible. “Anything else? How did he ask you? Details, Hermione, _details.”_

“Well…” Hermione started, hesitantly. “He was just...I was surprised by the level of initiative, you know? I mean, no offense to your brother—” 

“None taken,” Ginny said quickly. “Trash him all you want. Go on, please.” 

“Right. Well, with Ron, I always sort of felt like I had to plan everything, you know?” 

“Because you did?” Said Ginny. Molly snorted under her breath. 

Hermione laughed. “True, I suppose it really was like that. But with Draco…” Words failed her and she just grinned for a moment. “I mean, for starters he asked me on the trip. And he had done all the work himself to figure out how to fix my parents’ memories, which was very impressive of course. I mean, I’d been at it two years and I couldn’t have done it. And he was so _kind_ when he did it.” 

“Mrrrrgh,” said baby ghost Fred, baring his teeth at her. Molly hushed him. She would go, but in just a second....

“He had to step through all their memories to do it,” Hermione was saying now, “and he just…I would have thought Draco knowing about my childhood would be the worst thing that could possibly happen to me. I was an odd little girl, and sort of friendless, you know? I would’ve thought that would’ve just been ammunition for him. But he hasn’t said a word. He’s just...all he’s said was something about their love for me, how much they’ve always loved for me.” 

“That’s very good,” said Ginny. “I’m glad to hear he hasn’t made fun. I should have to hex him if he did.” 

Hermione laughed. “I don’t think he’s one you’ll have to hex.” 

Ginny sounded fierce. “Still. I’m your best friend; if he’s not taking perfect care of you, he’ll have me to answer to.” The bed creaked above, like she was shifting to a more comfortable position. “So, how did he ask?” 

“Well, he actually asked sort of a bit before, but I thought it was a joke. Right after he’d restored their memories. I was so happy I absolutely flung my arms around him and I said, ‘Draco, I’m so happy I could kiss you!’” Hermione flung her arms out and hugged herself, demonstrating. “And he said, ‘Do it.’ And of course, I was like, ‘What?’ So it didn’t happen then.” 

“Merlin, Hermione,” said Ginny. “Don’t waste words. You should’ve just gone for it. That’d have been brilliant for your parents; they forget all about you for two years and then suddenly you’re snogging some guy in their kitchen.” 

Hermione’s voice came quietly but eagerly, like she might be blushing. “No, hardly. But after they’d gone to bed, I sort of ran into him in the kitchen, and I asked if we could talk about the...well, about what he’d said. And that’s when he told me…” 

“Told you what?” Ginny sounded rapt. 

“Well, he said he loves me.” Molly’s eyebrows practically went through the ceiling. 

Ginny’s voice shot up in volume. “Golly, he led with _that?”_

“No, no!” Hermione hastened to interrupt her. “It wasn’t like...well, what he actually said was that he’s absolutely crazy for me, and I could probably tell, and then the love thing was a bit later, and it wasn’t with words exactly, it was more with kissing.” 

“It wasn’t with words?” Ginny sounded confused. 

“Well, it was and it wasn’t. It was a whole thing.” Hermione waved it away. “He’s not crazy or hasty or anything. But the point is, we admitted we both liked each other and then we just didn’t talk about it much. We had a lovely week together, and then at the end he asked what was going to happen when we came home. He said we should either just go for it or...not.” 

“What did you say?” 

“I said we ought to go for it,” Hermione said sweetly. 

“So why didn’t you tell me?” It sounded like this was the question Ginny had been bursting to ask. “You could have owled, or—” 

“Well, of course I wanted to tell you in person!” Hermione interrupted her. “But our flight got back so late, and then work started so early. We really were going to tell you nicely, but then we were finally alone together and you know how it is, he just looked particularly handsome and we really thought we would hear you come in…” 

“But you are going for it?” Ginny asked. “You weren’t trying to hide from me and Harry?” 

“No, of course not!” Hermione blushed. “I mean, it has been a little difficult to figure out how to tell people. And it’s still _very_ early of course; I don’t want everyone to find out at once. That would just be loads of pressure. But, friends can know. That’s where we’re at.” 

“Right,” said Ginny. “And if people should happen to find out from friends…” Molly raised her eyebrow and stood up completely from the chair. She knew this must be about Ginny’s slip of the tongue at the Grouchy Gremlin last night. She started tiptoeing towards the door, baby ghost Fred still glaring daggers at her for eavesdropping. 

“Well, that’s okay too,” said Hermione. Molly stopped in her tracks, relieved. “Honestly, we both admitted we’re a bit nervous about the whole thing. He’s not terribly excited to tell his parents, and I’m not exactly in a rush for them to know either. But I think I like people knowing.” She sounded happy. 

Ginny shifted into a more comfortable position. “And it’s not weird, with you...you know, his house and everything?” Molly cast a quick _Muffliato_ on the door, which was infamously creaky. She pulled it open and stepped into the hall—the conversation really ought to be private. 

“Well…” Hermione said, after a silence. Molly could still just hear her through the thin walls. “I think it’ll be a little while before I’m ready to visit Malfoy Manor. And he understands that; he’s been very understanding of that. But he’d like to show me around a little more, he said; he wants me to see the library. His mother got it as part of her inheritance; it’s the Black family library and he said it’s like the Restricted Section at Hogwarts but ten times the size. It’s everything you could ever want to know about magic.” 

Ginny frowned. “No offense, but wouldn’t that be a lot of Dark Magic?” Molly, in the hall, raised her eyebrows, then remembered she could still hear and started to walk down the stairs, one slow step at a time.

“No,” said Hermione, her voice slowly fading into the distance. “Not all of it. I mean, Hogwarts restricted loads of books that weren’t Dark Magic. They didn’t even stock copies of the ones about Magical sex, for example, and they’d censor random books like _Hogwarts: A History._ I mean, I got a look at Madam Pince’s catalog one year and there were all sorts of books struck off. The history of Iceland is banned at Hogwarts for some reason. But the Malfoys have got all of it.” 

“That should be fun,” said Ginny.

“I know. He’s given me a copy of their catalog, and he’s offered to bring me anything I’d like...” Molly stepped off the last stair into the living room and congratulated herself on her feat of self-control for not listening longer. She seated herself in a cozy chair in front of the fire and summoned her knitting. 

A few inches of gold knitting later, Ron came down the stairs, staring straight ahead and walking so lightly he was almost floating. 

“Hermione’s here,” said Ron, a distant expression in his eyes like he had seen a ghost. 

“Yeah,” said Molly, raising her eyebrows. “Have you got a problem with it?” 

He shook his head. “I dunno how she makes me feel…” He rubbed his temples. “Why would Ginny invite her over and not give me time to prepare?” 

Molly set down her knitting. “I thought you said in your song you were over her?” 

Ron looked betrayed. “Why would you believe me when I said that?” 

Molly snorted and resumed her knitting. “Maybe you shouldn’t announce things publicly until you’re sure of them. People might believe you.” 

Ron groaned and trudged off into the kitchen. He and Arthur exchanged some quick words—Arthur must still be in there reading. Then—

“NOOOO!” Ron howled from the kitchen. Molly started; she had best go see what was wrong. 

She ceased her knitting spell and eased herself out of the chair. She stumbled over to the kitchen—her left foot had fallen asleep, and it was tingling something awful. Thudding feet rocketed down the stairs and Ginny and Hermione brushed past her on their way into the kitchen. 

“What’s happened?” Ginny’s voice came sharp from the kitchen. “Are you all right, Ron?” 

“Yeah,” he said, sounding shell-shocked. “I can’t decide if I’m...what do they want with me, anyway?!” 

Molly walked into the kitchen just in time to see Ron give her wellies a vicious kick. “Ron!” She chided him. 

He turned, his eyes red and hurt. Molly looked for the source of the trouble and found two open letters on the kitchen table, printed on yellow Ministry stationery. 

“Hello, Hermione,” she said, the witch catching her eye then. She shifted, trying to sound calm like she hadn’t accidentally-on-purpose heard half her love story with Draco. 

“Hi,” said Hermione, seeming a bit thrown by the whole situation. 

“Hello, Hermione!” Arthur looked surprised to see her. “What a pleasure.” He reached over the table to shake her hand. 

“Hi, Mr. Weasley,” Hermione said, peering past him to get a better look at the letters. “Have the Wizengamot summoned you, too?” 

“Yes,” said Arthur, surprised. “Ron and me both.” 

“How did you know?” Ron whipped around to look at her. 

Hermione shrugged and hugged her arms to her chest. “Harry and Draco and I have all got summons. Draco got his ages ago, obviously, considering he’s Lucius’ son, and I got mine the day I quit the case. It’s just the barristers calling people in when they think they’ve find someone who might help their case.” 

“I can’t imagine why I’ve got one,” said Mr. Weasley, peering at his. 

“Is it from Bartleby or Lester?” 

“Lester.” 

Hermione nodded. “That’s the prosecution. It’ll be a character witness they’re asking for. They’ll want to hear about any run-ins you’ve had with him in the past, and of course the whole thing with Ginny.” 

Ginny, next to her, flushed furiously. Molly felt for her. They usually took care not to bring up the time she had struck up a friendship with Voldemort’s diary in her presence; hopefully the Wizengamot would not pull her in to talk about that. That must be the last thing she wanted. 

“Prosecution?” Ron was frowning. “What about me?” He seized his letter and thrust his arm out, holding it out to Hermione. She scanned it and handed it back to him. 

“Prosecution, probably. For Malfoy Manor. That’ll be one of the charges; it’s not a character witness. They’ve asked me in for that, too.” 

“Prosecution?” Ron’s expression softened a bit. “So it’s not from your old boss, Bartleby?” 

Hermione shook her head, her arms crossed protectively. “No. They’re not asking you to defend him.” 

Ron breathed a sigh of relief. “Brilliant. Because I don’t think I could’ve…” 

“You don’t really get to decide,” Hermione snapped. “Both the defense and the prosecution are calling Draco. It just means they read your Auror report from ages ago and think it might help their case.” 

“I don’t even remember giving a report to an Auror about Lucius,” said Arthur, peering at his letter with an anxious expression. 

“You can ask to see it,” said Hermione. “Just reply with a formal request. They’ve got to let you. Narcissa’s viewed hers dozens of times; she’s practically got it memorized word for word at this point.” 

“Wow,” said Ginny. “She must be nervous.” 

“Very much so,” said Hermione soberly, but then she grinned a little. “She kept trying to change it at first, before she realized she could only add things and wasn’t allowed to remove them. We got four additional charges out of her.” 

“Brilliant,” Ron breathed. “So can I add charges too, or…?” 

“Only if you’ve forgotten one and they haven’t uncovered it yet,” Hermione snapped. 

A smirk tugged at the corner of Ron’s mouth as he continued to look at his summons. It was like an idea was lighting up his brain. Molly noticed Hermione watching him, her arms crossed, nervously squeezing her arm with her fingertips. After a minute, she spoke. 

“Ron, do you think we could talk after all?” 

Ron nodded, lips parted, staring like his wildest dreams had just been fulfilled. He followed Hermione out to the garden. 

Molly watched them go. Arthur inched over to her. 

“Ten sickles says he sings her his _Ode to My Letter Ex_ song,” he whispered. 

Molly snorted, but it didn’t seem entirely out of the realm of possibility. She strained to hear what was going on outside, but she couldn’t make anything out over the wind and the snoring of the gnomes who were hibernating in the garden. 

“I’m sorry,” said Ginny, collapsing on the bench. “He said he was over her in that farmhouse song he kept playing. I didn’t think he’d come bother Hermione.”

Arthur shook his head and began to clean up his breakfast dishes. “Not your fault.” 

Molly summoned her knitting into the kitchen; now was as good a time as any to get a few more inches in. The baby was coming in a matter of weeks, and the blanket was still only large enough to house a squirrel. 

The back door clattered shut and Ron and Hermione walked into the kitchen a couple minutes later. Molly looked at them sharply, searching both their faces for any hint of a fight or a reconciliation. Ron looked tired, and surprisingly calm; his shoulders were drooping but he was walking with more of a spring in his step. Hermione looked on edge like she couldn’t wait to leave the house. Sure enough—

“I think I’m going to head out,” said Hermione with an apologetic look at Ginny. “Homework.” She went to fetch her traveling cloak from the hatstand. 

“Right, see you,” said Ron, and she let him give her an awkward hug before bidding Ginny farewell. She waved to Molly and Arthur before heading out the door and apparating right on the stoop. 

“So?” Ginny leaned forward, unable to mask her eagerness any longer. “What did she say?” 

“Friends,” said Ron simply. “Love was too complicated. We’re going to be friends again.” 

“That’s it?” Ginny blurted out. Ron looked at her sharply. “No reciting her your album, no begging her forgiveness, no nothing?” 

“It’s not nothing.” He still looked confused, in his eyes. Molly got the sense Hermione might have explained a few things to him. “It was all so...it was all to get her attention, I guess. And I got it. And I don’t need it anymore.” 

“No more _Ron Weasley and the Spigots?”_ Ginny looked genuinely bereft. “And just as I was starting to like your music!” 

“No, no, I’m keeping the music,” said Ron firmly. “I like my songs. I’m not getting rid of them.” 

“Good,” said Molly quickly. He looked grateful. She folded up her knitting; it just was not getting done at the rate it needed. “I’m glad, Ron; you two were such good friends before. I’d hate to see that gone forever over a breakup.” She wondered briefly how he was so calm; Hermione must not have mentioned her budding relationship with Draco. Or perhaps the calmness was a surface illusion, like ripples coming from a pond as creatures slither about within it. 

“Yeah,” said Ron, looking less and less convinced with every passing moment. “Blimey, I forgot to introduce her to our child.” He looked down at his shoes, shifting his weight awkwardly. He took a deep breath and straightened up in a way that made Molly fear he was going to go run after Hermione again. 

“It’s not your child,” said Molly, unable to stop herself. “It’s Fred’s ghost.” 

“What?” Ginny’s jaw dropped, like she had been unexpectedly walloped in the stomach with a baseball bat. Molly froze. She hadn’t planned on telling them like that; hadn’t planned on telling them at all, really…Ginny looked from Molly to Arthur, her eyes frightened. “How? Dad, is that true?” 

She caught Arthur looking at her helplessly. They had agreed not to tell the children, worried what it might make them think. But what was done was done. Arthur turned to Ginny, said gently, softly, firmly, “I’d know him anywhere.” 

“But why is he a little baby?” Ginny half stood up, caught in a limbo between the bench and the table, her voice coming out cracked and high-pitched. 

“We don’t know,” Molly admitted. She looked to Arthur for support. “But he’s come back to us for some reason.” 

“That can’t be,” said Ginny. “Why isn’t he at rest? Why isn’t he himself? What’s gone _wrong_ with him?” She sounded like she might be about to cry. Molly instinctively went to her, but Ginny pushed her away. “I’m gonna go talk to Harry.” 

“Ginny—” Molly reached for her, but she was out the door and gone with a crack. She looked around the room. Ron stood up then, too. 

“I’ve lived in the same house for weeks but I was just too blind to see it? Couldn’t bother to tell me, eh?” His voice was husky. 

“We did at first, but you were drunk and you insisted,” said Arthur honestly. 

“What use is a ghost that can’t talk?” Molly was about to retort something about the baby making her less lonely, about just having Fred there, but she saw tears pricking Ron’s eyes and bit her tongue. “Yeah. Well.” He said after a minute. “I think I’m gonna go too. A walk. A drink. Something.” 

“All right,” said Arthur. He put his hands protectively on Molly’s shoulders and they watched him leave, too. 

“What have I done?” Molly whispered. “Why did I tell them, Arthur?” 

Arthur shook his head, his lips sealed. Molly felt grateful that he was kind enough not to say what she was sure was running through his head.


	21. The Limits of Perception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SOMEONE just got fired. Percy finds out about baby ghost Fred.

“Arthur, you’ve been over that a hundred times.” Molly peered over her magazine at her husband, who had his Auror report from seven years ago out again. He was tapping a pencil against his mouth. 

“But what am I going to say?” He furrowed his brow, and circled something. 

“The truth. It’s perjury if you don’t. Please don’t say anything else; I don’t want to be going to your trial next.” 

Arthur smiled in spite of himself and set the paper down. “You’re right.” He looked into the fire sadly. “I’m just not sure what they’re going to ask.” 

“Well, what did you say in your report about Lucius?” Molly set _Witch Weekly down._

_“‘He’s nothing but a stuck-up prick who thinks his ancestry gives him license to insult these people, who are really very lovely,’”_ read Arthur, shaking the statement flat. “It’s about the time I got into a bit of a tussle with him when he was rude to Hermione’s parents in Flourish and Blott’s.” 

“See?” said Molly. “That’s an excellent character witness right there. He looks down on Muggles, and you can prove it.” But Arthur wasn’t looking at her. 

“What was that?” The kitchen door had just creaked in a jerky way, like someone was trying to open it without being heard. Arthur put a finger to his lips and pulled out his wand. Molly followed him out to the kitchen, her own wand in her hand. There was a dark figure pulling off its boots in the kitchen. Arthur flicked on the light. 

“Ow!” Ron spun around to face them, arm over his eyes to shield himself from the light. 

Molly stared at him a moment before running to him. “Oh, Ron! You’ve come back!” She hugged him fiercely. 

“Er, hi,” said Ron, trying to pry her off. “I was actually just coming to get some things.” 

Molly’s face fell. “You’re not staying?” 

After learning about baby ghost Fred, both Ginny and Ron had taken off and not come back. She hadn’t heard from either of them in almost a week. 

Ron shook his head. “I, er...actually, is there any chance you could put in a good word for me with George?” 

Molly shook her head, not understanding. “Why? He likes you plenty.” 

“It’s just, er…” Ron ran his fingers through his hair, avoiding their gaze. “I sort of got fired today.” 

“You what?” said Arthur, shifting his weight onto his forward foot. 

“Fired. Williamson just informed me. Seamus says I can’t move back in unless I can make up my portion of the rent, and I’ve probably outstayed my welcome with Luna. And the music business is sort of...well, starving artist, you know.” Ron rubbed his fingers together like he was counting money, which was imaginary because he hadn’t got any left. “So I was sort of hoping maybe...I could help George out at the shop.” 

Molly was still staring at him. “Fired? You got fired?” 

“Yeah.” Ron hung his head. 

“You mean you hadn’t _quit?!”_

Ron looked at her, a worried expression in his eyes. “Was I supposed to?” 

“Yes!” Molly looked to Arthur, practically speechless. Arthur looked grim. “We thought you’d quit ages ago. You can’t just up and go back to a job after three months of not showing up.” 

“It wasn’t like they were paying me anymore,” said Ron, anxious. “My sick pay ran out ages ago. I just went to ask for a copy of my Auror statement before the trial, and Williamson said he’d read about my new gig in the papers, so…” 

Molly shook her head. She had no idea what to do with him. 

“Well, I’m gonna try to live with Seamus again, at any rate,” said Ron. “I’m just grabbing a few things. I’ll get thirty knuts as a witness on Wednesday, so that ought to tide me over for a bit.” 

“Okay,” said Arthur, pronouncing it too clearly, like it was the only thing he intended to say. 

“Er, bye, then,” he said awkwardly. “I’ll see you at the trial.” He turned and went upstairs, his feet flopping on the floor. 

Molly turned to Arthur. “Do we ask George to help him out?” 

Arthur raised his eyebrows and breathed sharply. “We can Floo him, if you’d like. Or we can just let him work things out for himself, like an adult.”

“Let’s Floo George.” Molly didn’t really trust Ron’s ability to survive on his own. She marched back into the living room and called up George’s flat on the Floo Network, feeling a bit unsteady as she did so, like her mind was several miles behind her body but aching to catch up. _“Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.”_ She stuck her head into the fire. “George, darling?” 

The tiny flat materialized before her. It looked even more crowded from this position; a painted bean bag chair was obstructing most of her view of the room, and there were boxes and assorted knickknacks scattered all about the floor. She could see the edge of George and Angelina’s bedroom, which was a closet they had pried the doors off of and enlarged enough to stick a bed into, and George clambered out of there now. 

“Mum! Is everything all right?” He scurried over to her, clothed in shabby pajamas and clutching a book in one hand. 

“Yes, nothing to worry about,” Molly reassured him. “Er...your brother. Ron. He got officially fired from his Auror job.”

George frowned. “He hadn’t quit?” Molly thought his face looked unworried enough that he probably didn’t yet know about baby ghost Fred. 

Molly shook her head. “Apparently not. Listen, could you take him on in the shop? Just for a little while? I mean, with Jimothy back to Hogwarts…” 

George’s eyes got wide. “Take him on? Is his music not going that well, then?” 

“Well, it sounds like he’s making enough off it, but apparently not rent.” 

George cocked his eyebrow. “Well, he can’t come live here with me and Angelina. There’s barely enough room for the two of us in the flat as it is.” 

Molly shook her head. “No, not live with you. He wants to live with Seamus. But he could work for you, at least a couple hours a week, stocking shelves or something?” 

George looked around, blinking helplessly. “Can’t he get a job somewhere else?” 

“Not at the Ministry for a while, probably.” 

“George? Is everything all right?” called Angelina from the bed closet. 

“Yes, yes, just talking to Mum,” George called back. 

 

“Oh. Hi, Mrs. Weasley!” called Angelina without coming out. 

“Hello!” Molly called back. 

“Don’t mind her,” said George, lowering his voice. “I’m sure she’d come out to say hi, but we’re a bit wedged in there and it’s sort of a hassle to clamber out.” 

“Not a problem,” said Molly. “So.” After a moment. “Are you going to hire him?” 

George looked pained. “I love the kid and everything, but I really don’t want to, Mum.” 

“George, he’s your brother! Why not?” 

“It’s just that he’s got no work ethic. And he’s so moody, he’ll drive all the customers away.” 

“You can put him in the back,” said Molly decisively. “He’ll clean up your storeroom for you.” 

“He just got fired for not showing up to work for three months. I can’t afford to pay someone who doesn’t show up.” 

“You can fire him if he doesn’t.” George still looked unsure. Molly adopted a more authoritative tone. “I know he can be difficult, but he’s still your brother. You have to hire him.” 

George sighed, looking away from her. “I’ll think about it.” 

“So that’s a yes?” 

“G’night, Mum.” 

Molly bade him farewell and pulled her head back out of the fireplace. “He’ll take him on,” she said to Arthur, who was standing there watching with his arms folded. 

Arthur nodded tersely. “Good.” 

Molly sat back on the floor and sighed. “I want to go see Ginny, Arthur.” 

“Yeah.” Arthur softened a little and moved to sink into the couch. Molly heaved herself up and went to sit by him, resting her head on his shoulder. 

“Do you think she’s still angry about Fred?” 

“She was never angry,” said Arthur, gently stroking her wrist to comfort her. He checked his pocket watch. “It’s not that late. Do you want to pop over and see how she is?” 

Molly nodded, feeling nervous. “I really miss her.” 

“She’s not angry,” said Arthur, kissing her hair. “Just surprised. You should go; I’ll hold down the fort here in case Ron needs anything.” 

“Thank you,” said Molly, shifting so she could embrace him. She got up then and summoned her traveling cloak and wellies. “I’ll not be a minute.” 

Molly walked outside into the cold breeze. It was a full moon, and she could see the outlines of the deadened tree branches all about the horizon. With any luck Arthur was right, and Ginny just hadn’t known what to think, and was perhaps too nervous to come back to the Burrow and see her brother’s ghost again to come talk to Molly about it. She turned and gave herself over to the sensation of Apparation. 

Molly reappeared on the steps of Grimmauld Place. Things were brighter here in the light of the streetlamps, but just as cold. She could hear a siren wailing in the distance. She took a deep breath and rapped on the door. 

The door clicked and opened for her of its own accord. 

“Come in!” Ginny yelled from down the hall. Molly followed her voice into the drawing room, but came to an abrupt halt in the doorway. The drawing room was now completely full of books. They were everywhere: stacked up on all the shelving, littering the floor, piled on every available surface. It was surely Hermione’s doing. 

“Hey, Mum,” said Ginny, appearing from behind a stack of leatherbound volumes. She had dark circles under her eyes. 

“Ginny,” said Molly, a bit dumbfounded and forgetting her planned speech. She looked around. “What’s all this?” 

“Draco and Hermione have built us a law library,” said Ginny, sounding more exhausted than happy about the project. “It’s just rented, though I’m sure he’s going to buy them for her eventually. We’ll never get the room back.” 

“It’s not much of a loss,” said Harry, emerging from a cave made of Latin dictionaries. “It was really grim before.” 

“Yeah, well, we can’t hardly reach the fireplace, never mind relax again.” Ginny smoothed her hand over her forehead. 

“Is this for the case?” asked Molly, noticing a river of hand-scrawled parchment scrolls building down the middle of the room. 

“Yeah, two of ‘em.” Ginny gestured for her to sit on one of the armchairs, which was thankfully free of books. “We’ve got our bill Kingsley wants us to introduce to the Wizengamot, establishing a legal basis for Child Services, and then Hermione and Draco have been working night and day to figure out what to do about Mr. Malfoy and Bartleby.” 

“He tried to stack the jury, right?” 

“Yep,” said Ginny. “But please don’t tell anyone. They’ve got to find some sort of loophole. They want him put away, but the Kiss is still on the books.” 

“Of course not,” said Molly, adjusting one of her shawls. She had already told Arthur, but he didn’t count. “So how is the bill coming?” 

“Not well,” said Harry, looking haggard. “We’ve been at it all morning. And half the night, too. Hermione’s just left; Draco’s taking her on some fancy dinner date to get her a break from all the research.” 

“That’s nice,” said Molly. “Where’s he taking her? Did he say?” 

“The Nymphe on Bank, said Harry. 

Molly’s eyes popped open. “The Nymphe on Bank?” 

“You’ve heard of it?” 

Molly nodded. “It’s very exclusive. The entrance fee alone is…” She shook her head, tutting. 

“Yeah, well, they’ve left us here with all this,” said Ginny, nudging a book with her foot. “But they’re Magical Law students. I can’t make heads or tails of these books. I mean, to hear them talk, it’s all,” she imitated Hermione, “‘That’s a crime under Section 630 Subsection 4 Paragraph 12 of the Magical Law Code, isn’t it, Draco?’” 

She dropped to a grating impression of a man’s voice. “‘But it’s just a misdemeanor under the MLC so it doesn’t merit the Kiss, remember; it was demoted from a high crime in 1742 at the Warlock’s Council.’ And she’s all ‘No, that was just in Scotland, Draco! He committed the crime in Berwick-Upon-Tweed, so it is under the MLC’s jurisdiction.’ And then he’s like ‘but Berwick wasn’t fully annexed to England until four years later, so we can argue it’s _ex post facto.”_ Ginny shook her head. “Frankly, it’s a miracle whenever I _haven’t_ got a headache.” 

“At least his spell helps,” said Harry woefully, crawling back into his cave on his stomach. 

“Oh, yeah, this is really cool. Look, Mum!” Ginny plopped a book open, propping it up with her left wrist as she raised her wand to demonstrate. _“Indago_ child _et_ authority _et_ remove.” The pages of the book flew open as if in a brisk wind, pausing at a page. “Look, there it is!” Ginny pointed. 

Molly squinted at the text; sure enough, it was about a case where the Ministry had seen fit to remove a child from her abusive household. “My, where was this in my Hogwarts days?” 

“It gets better,” said Ginny, grinning. “Say that’s not what I wanted. I just say _Proximus.”_ She tapped the page with her wand, and the pages again began to turn before landing again on a new case study. 

“That’s brilliant,” said Molly. “Did Hermione come up with that?” 

“No, Draco did,” said Ginny with a mischievous grin. “She’s been stewing over it all day. It’s not his exactly; he combined and modified a couple of charms. But he’s saved, oh, I dunno, a million hours probably on book reading since his fifth year, and they still got the same marks on all their essays.” 

“Oh, she must be livid,” said Molly. 

“Incredibly,” said Harry from his cave. “Also more than a little impressed.” 

“Yeah, she keeps on trying to make out like reading the whole book is superior, but he just says why do that when you already know what you’re looking for.” She shook her head admiringly. “I’m so glad we brought a Slytherin on board. Else Harry and I couldn’t help at all.” 

“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t much mind that right about now,” said Harry. He poked his head out from behind _Magical Criminal Law and Procedure._ “Say, while we’re on the topic, could you please not mention to anyone that Hermione and Draco are dating? Apparently we weren’t supposed to tell anyone yet.” 

Molly felt like a stage spotlight had just lit her up. “No, no, of course not.” 

“Did you tell anyone?” Ginny set down the book, raising her eyebrows. 

Molly shook her head. “Just your father.” He didn’t count. 

Ginny rolled her eyes and turned away dramatically. “Godric, Mum. Have we got to spell out everything?” 

“He had been talking to Draco!” Molly crossed her arms. “He went to go and ask him about Muggles. It’s your fault, really, Harry; you never answer his memos.” 

“Did Draco tell him?” Ginny asked, demanding her attention back. 

“No, they just talked about taxis and inventions.” 

_“Then why would you think it was all right for him to know?!”_

“Come off it, Ginny,” said Harry, crawling out of his fort to look for another book elsewhere. “It’s not like we’re models of discretion ourselves.” 

Ginny blew a wisp of hair out of her face, continuing to glare at Molly. 

“We haven’t told Ron,” said Molly. 

“For the record, I haven’t told anyone,” said someone. Molly turned around to see Percy behind her. “Hello, Mum.” 

Molly cast her hands in the air. “Why is it all right for Percy to know and not your father?!” 

“It’s good to see you too,” said Percy, pushing his way in. 

“Aha, there you are,” said Ginny, helping him clear a little path to the other armchair. She shot a meaningful look at Molly and said in a stage whisper, “He got lost on his way to the loo.”

“I did not,” Percy shot back over his shoulder as he went to take a seat. “I just had a lot of...thoughts.” 

“Yes, loo thoughts are the best and wisest always.” Ginny shoved him into the chair. 

“What’s he doing here?” Molly asked. “Sorry, Percy, what are you doing here?” 

“I’ve been asking him about Fred,” Ginny answered for him, hands on her hips, feet planted firmly on the ground. “I want to know what’s going on with him.” 

“Oh, Godric,” said Molly, sinking into her chair again. Here it was. She clutched her forehead. “I’m sorry we didn’t tell you sooner.” 

Ginny shook her head in a very businesslike way. “That’s not what’s bothering me. I just want to know what he’s doing here.” 

“He’s come back,” said Molly, feeling achy. “He misses us. He wants to be with us.” 

“Does he?” said Percy. Molly snapped up to look at him. He was sitting as he usually did, legs parallel to one another and knees bent at a perfect ninety-degree angle to the ground, but his shoulders slouching. She tried to push down her instant feeling of annoyance. 

“Of course he does.” 

“That’s not what I’m saying. I mean, doesn’t the whole thing strike you as very unusual for a ghost?” 

Molly glared at him, daring him to continue. He did. 

“For starters, he appeared at the Burrow and not at Hogwarts where he…” Percy waved a hand but couldn’t make himself say it. “For seconds, he’s reappeared as a baby and in different clothes from the last time we saw him. For thirds, he’s solid enough to touch sometimes and he’s got the ability to knock things over _and_ go through them.” 

“I don’t care if it’s unusual, _Fred_ was unusual!” Molly found herself halfway to her feet and breathless. 

“I’m not saying it’s not Fred,” said Percy. His calm tone was only stoking her frustration. “I am saying, why here? Why like this? Why a whole year and a half later?” 

Molly looked at Ginny instead. “What have you asked him here for? Who else have you told?” 

Ginny stood her ground. “Just Percy. I thought since he’d been Head Boy, he’s seen more of Hogwarts than me and he might know something. Or maybe that he would have come across something similar in one of those boring Ministry case files he’s forever going on about.” 

“Unfortunately, Magical Transportation Regulation is a completely distinct field from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, of which ghosts are a subset,” said Percy. 

“He’s not a _creature—”_ Molly collapsed back in the chair, hand over her mouth in horror. “He’s your _brother!”_ She shook her head. “See, this is why I didn’t want to tell anyone. Why have you got to go and worry about where and how he came from? Why can’t you just let him be and enjoy having him here?”

“It’s different for you and Dad,” said Ginny quietly. “You knew him when he was a baby. You remember him like this. But for the rest of us...this means he’s not my big brother anymore, and that’s just...” she bit her lip and turned her head, unable to continue.

“Ginny,” said Molly, melting. She stepped over the legal books as quick as she could and held out her arms.

Ginny came to her, tentatively at first, but then she let herself into her mother’s embrace, beginning to cry a little on her shoulder.

“You too, Percy,” said Molly, beckoning him over. He came and gave Ginny a hesitant pat on the back while Molly put an arm around his waist, which was about as high as she could reach. “I’m so sorry. I know this is really hard for you to take in.” She noticed Harry still laying awkwardly on his stomach among the books, wondering if he ought to try and comfort Ginny or give her a moment instead. “He’s a very happy little ghost; I don’t think you need to worry about that. If anything he’s probably just come back because he misses George.” 

“It’s so much,” said Ginny, wiping her eyes. “I mean, I hate to say it like this, but just as I was starting to be able to move on…” 

Molly didn’t have words for that; didn’t think it would help her to tell her of the years she had spent longing for a ghost of her mother, or her father, or either of her brothers, or any number of her friends, to talk with and ask for advice or just to not have left her alone. So she just held her again instead. 

“Right.” Percy cleared his throat awkwardly after a moment and backed away. “Er, Mum. Is it all right if I...come and see him sometime?” 

Molly looked at him searchingly, wondering if he really meant it. She was nervous to let him come, because he was surely going to try and examine baby ghost Fred, and what if he tried to take him away from her or something? But also, she had longed for several years now for Percy to become a regular visitor to the Burrow. She swallowed her doubt and nodded, summoning up a warm smile for him. 

“Of course you can.” 

Percy let out a breath like he was relieved and trying to hide it. “Thank you. Er...when?” He shook his head. “I can’t do tomorrow; I’ve got to run in to work in the morning and then Audrey’s parents have bought us tickets to the Magical Opera.” 

Molly wrinkled her brow, thinking. “Well, the trial starts Monday, and I’ll be going with your father and Ron for moral support on whatever day they’re called. Perhaps when it’s over?” 

Percy bobbed his head up and down quickly. “Yes, that sounds perfect. It’ll be a lot calmer when the whole trial is over. The Department of Magical Transportation’s been utterly swamped arranging exempt Portkeys for the Death Eaters who are on bail without wands.” 

 

“Next week, then. Once the trial is over.” Molly found herself smiling. She reached up on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek before he could change his mind. 

Ginny had her arms folded, hugging herself, looking nervously between them. “I’m not ready to see him,” she said, sounding a little hurt. “I’m sure I will be, Mum. I’m sorry. It’s just too weird…” 

Molly nodded. “That’s quite all right, I understand.” 

Bright light filled the room then, and they all turned to look as a Patronus swam gracefully through the wall. 

“Hermione!” Harry leapt to his feet as the silver otter came to a stop. It rose to a sort of standing position and opened its mouth, speaking in Hermione’s voice. 

“We’ve figured out what to do, but we’ll need your help, Harry. Can you send an owl and ask Williamson for a meeting first thing tomorrow morning?” The Patronus dissipated into a shimmering cloud and was gone. 

“Williamson? Ron’s old boss?” Molly frowned, wrinkling her brow. 

“It must be about the trial.” Harry was still looking at the spot where the Patronus had vanished. “But I can’t imagine why they’d need the Auror office.” He stood there for another moment, then went dodging across books to the shelf to retrieve a writing desk. 

“You’re doing it?” Percy asked, surprised. 

“Of course.” Harry opened the desk and pulled out quill and parchment. 

“But you don’t even know what the meeting is about! How do you know he’ll even agree?” Percy sounded almost frantic, panicking at this apparent breach of professional etiquette. 

Harry began to scratch out a note. “Hermione would never waste my time like that, or his. It’s got to be sensitive, I’m guessing. I’m sure they’ll tell us when they’re back from dinner.” 

Percy shifted anxiously on the balls of his feet. 

Harry finished the letter and tied it into a little scroll. “Ginny, d’you mind if I borrow Pigwidgeon?” 

Ginny shook her head. “Of course not.” 

Harry still had yet to buy a new owl after Hedwig had died, which was sentimental of him but a little inconvenient in terms of getting mail out on time. He summoned Pigwidgeon, who came flapping in, flying unevenly in a way that Molly found reminiscent of watching a drunk Quidditch player. “Take this to Williamson.” Pigwidgeon hooted hopefully and took off, swerving under the weight of the little scroll. Harry watched him go. “I guess we can be done for the evening now,” he said to Ginny. “We haven’t got any use for looking up statutes if they’ve figured out what to do about Lucius, and I dunno about you but I could really use a break from our bill.” 

“Godric, yes.” Ginny nodded fervently. “Let’s please go to bed early.” 

“You’re staying here?” Molly asked, uncrossing her arms. 

Ginny nodded. “With Hermione.” 

“All right then.” Molly moved to hug her. “I’ll come see you again soon. You come back home whenever you’re ready.” 

Ginny bit her lip. “Thanks, Mum.” 

“I’ll walk out with you,” Percy offered. 

Molly said goodnight to Harry and took him up on it, walking out onto the step together. “Bright out, isn’t it,” he said awkwardly, gesturing at the moon. 

“Full, I think,” said Molly, not sure quite what to say to him. 

Percy shook his head. “It’s a little less than full. You see how it’s missing a sliver?” 

Molly couldn’t be bothered to check. “Goodnight, Percy. Come by after the trial, won’t you?” 

“Yeah.” He nodded, not looking at her. 

“I love you.” 

“I...goodnight, Mum.” He was gone. 

Molly blinked back something out of her eye. Had he almost…?


	22. Community Impact, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron, Harry, Hermione, and Draco all testify at the Malfoy trial. The jury gets a lot more evidence than it bargained for. 
> 
> Part 1 of 2.

The morning of Lucius Malfoy’s trial dawned sunny and cold. Molly baked some biscuits to serve as snacks during the lengthy proceedings, but these were promptly confiscated by an Auror at the courtroom door, putting her in a rather foul mood as she arrived. 

“Good luck, love,” she said to Arthur, giving him a kiss on the cheek before sending him off to the witness holding room. She found herself a seat toward the back of the public gallery and sat down, looking around. 

It was one of the larger courtrooms, and although it was early in the morning on the third day it was already filling up rapidly. She recognized many of the faces in the gallery: friends, acquaintances, schoolmates from her days back at Hogwarts who had some stake in the outcome of the trial. Probably most were like her, there to support a witness, or several. 

One middle-aged witch with long brown hair waved at her from the other side of the gallery before walking over. 

“Andromeda! Good to see you.” They embraced. “You’re looking well. Where is Teddy?” 

“Home with a friend,” said Andromeda Tonks, shaking her hair over her shoulder. “He’s just starting to get really good at walking, and I didn’t think he’d sit still all day.” 

“Were you here to give evidence?”

Andromeda shook her head. “I knew him at Hogwarts, but my family had already disowned me by the time he joined the Death Eaters or married my sister. Narcissa asked if I could come. She…” Andromeda sighed heavily, looking bereft. 

“I know,” said Molly soothingly, patting the seat next to her. 

“It’s complicated,” said Andromeda. “Thank you.” She took the seat and looked down at the courtroom, where the barristers and their solicitors were already spreading out papers across their desks. “She hasn’t got anyone left. I mean, she’s got Draco, but she needs more than that, just like he does.” 

“It’s very good of you,” said Molly. 

Andromeda gave her a little smile. 

“I’d offer you a biscuit, but they confiscated them at the entrance.” 

Andromeda laughed. “It’s just a few hours until lunch.” 

Their attention was disrupted then as an usher called out for everyone to take their seats—the trial would be resuming in just a few minutes. 

“Anyway,” said Andromeda as the bustle of activity resumed as those standing searched for their seats, “I’ve got to say I’ve been having such mixed emotions about this whole trial.” 

“How so?” Molly raised her eyebrows. Considering Death Eaters had murdered her husband, she would have thought Andromeda would be firmly on the side of justice. 

“The Kiss is still on the books,” said Andromeda, shaking her head. “Alceto and Amycus Carrow were given the Kiss last week, and Antonin Dolohov will get it as soon as he’s done testifying in the upcoming trials. I can’t...it’s just...it’s a truly terrible punishment. It would be better if we just killed them, as far as my thinking goes.” She bit her lip, looking down at the empty cage where the defendants sat. “If they executed Lucius, Narcissa could grieve, and she would even be free to remarry if she wanted to. But as it is, she’ll just be chained to a husk of a man for the rest of her life…” 

“I see,” said Molly, putting her arm around her sympathetically. 

Andromeda shook her head like she was having trouble getting out. “We haven’t always been on the best terms, my sister and I, but I’m just worried that...if they give it to him...they might give it to her, too.” 

Molly tried to find something to say to comfort her, but the court usher stood up then to announce the beginning of the trial. 

“Day Three of _The Wizarding Community of Great Britain versus Lucius Malfoy._ The Prosecution may continue to call witnesses.” 

“They’ve been calling witnesses the past two days,” Andromeda whispered, leaning over. “They called in all his Death Eater friends the first day and promised them lighter sentences if they testified against him, and yesterday was mostly taken up with a presentation of physical evidence. They did a reverse spell on his wand to examine what spells You Know Who used, which took about four hours to get through.” 

Molly nodded. “What counts have they got him in on?” 

“Loads.” Andromeda sucked in her breath, thinking. “Harbouring a fugitive or felon; three counts of an accessory to first degree murder. They’ve dropped the ones for the Battle of Hogwarts; his wand proved he never fired a spell during the Battle. He and Narcissa spent the whole time looking for Draco.” She shrugged, looking conflicted. “There’s also five counts of false imprisonment, one of hostage taking, and one of accessory to grand assault for the people he helped imprison in Malfoy Manor. That’s what your family is testifying about, isn’t it?” 

Molly nodded. “Ron, at least.” 

“All rise for the jury!” Molly and Andromeda got to their feet as the black-clad jurors filed in to their bench, looking grim. 

Andromeda leaned over. “Oh, and they swapped out the entire jury last minute. Very secretive; they took a new lottery on orders of the Minister himself.” 

Molly smiled to herself. So Kingsley Shacklebolt had moved to stop the jury-packing scheme Hermione had mentioned. 

“Bring in the defendant.” 

A door opened at the back of the room and a chill filled the air. Lucius Malfoy entered in chains, his long hair unkempt, looking haggard and weak, but he was flanked by two Aurors. They brought him to his seat inside the defendant’s cage and deposited him, where he stayed, looking almost relieved. 

“They’re not bringing Dementors into the courtroom anymore, but they’ve still got them in the back,” Andromeda whispered. “Progress, I suppose.” 

Molly shivered, grateful for it. She remembered the trial for her brothers’ murder. It had been quick and a sham, and the gallery had been shielded by a Patronus, but she could vividly recall the look of pure misery on the faces of the accused as their keepers hovered about them. 

“Will the Prosecution rise.” 

The barrister to Molly’s right got up, blond-haired Leviticus Lester. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Your Honor. My esteemed colleague.” He gave a slight bow in the direction of Bartimeus Bartleby, Hermione’s former boss and the barrister for the defence, seated one desk over. “As we continue the pursuit of justice against this current member of the terrorist group known as the Death Eaters, might I remind you of the relevant statutes…” 

Molly looked down at her hands, fidgeting nervously. She hoped Ron and Arthur were doing all right. Ron had looked ashen when she had seen him last; he loathed public speaking and was not looking forward to recounting his experience of being unable to assist Hermione while she was being tortured. Arthur was similarly nervous; Lucius and he had had many run-ins over the years and he was concerned the jury might still be packed with wizards sympathetic to the defendant’s plight. 

“...and as a beginning to today’s proceedings, I move to call our first witness of the day, Miss Luna Lovegood.” Lester waved grandly toward the side door. 

Luna walked out, seeming to float a little less than usual. She was wearing a smart black-and-pink suit with only a few ruffles to the skirt, and she had her light blonde hair tied back. Lucius Malfoy stared at her as she came, but she avoided looking at him and took the stand. 

“Please hold out your right hand for the oath.” Luna did so, swearing her loyalty to the truth in a clear, high voice. Molly leaned forward, silently wishing her encouragement. Luna seemed unusually sober, and here it was—the heaviness behind her singing; the serious side of a girl from whom a somber side should never have been forced. 

“Miss Lovegood,” said Lester, “Do you recognize this man?” 

Luna looked straight at Lucius Malfoy then. “I do. That’s Mr. Malfoy. He’s the one who locked me in his basement so my father would stop writing supportive things about Harry.” 

“Miss Lovegood, could you describe for us please the circumstances and duration of your imprisonment, from the beginning?” 

Luna nodded and told her story, her chin held high, her voice clear and unwavering. Molly was impressed. If she felt any fear or hesitation, she was showing no sign of it; she had the self-possessed manner of someone confidently entitled to justice. 

Luna finished, and the judge invited Bartleby to cross-examine Luna for the defence. Bartleby declined, and Lester dismissed her. She caught Molly’s eye in the gallery and came to join her toward the back. 

“How did I do?” she whispered. 

“Brilliant!” Molly clasped her hand as she sat down. “You were so brave.” 

“Thanks,” said Luna, looking back to Lucius in his cage. “I’d like to stay and see what happens to him. He had a very nice house, although the basement was a little unfinished.” 

The next couple of witness statements proceeded much the same. Lester called Neville next. Bartleby cross-examined him fiercely this time, seeking to cast doubt on his magical abilities and powers of memory, but Neville held up brilliantly. Then Dean Thomas gave a compelling testimony, which Bartleby somehow tore apart with a few insinuations about the wizard father who had abandoned him. Dean stormed out of the courtroom after he was finished. Molly found herself thanking the heavens Hermione had found her way off the defence legal team; to have any hand in raking her friends across the coals like this would have been terrible. 

Ollivander was next, then Ron. He looked to Molly for support, his lower lip trembling, but he got through his story admirably. Bartleby apparently hadn’t done much research on ways to discredit Ron—probably a thoughtful admission on Hermione’s part—so he got through the cross-examination relatively unscathed, if a little shaken. He came to join Molly in the gallery and took a seat between her and Luna. 

“Well done, Ron,” said Luna, taking his hand. “You were very brave.” 

“Thanks,” said Ron, coloring. Molly noticed Luna didn’t let go of his hand. 

Next came Harry, who was greeted with a murmur from the crowd and some furious pencil scratching by the court sketch artist. He stated the facts, but then before Bartleby could cross-examine him he also stated a case for the defence. He talked about Lucius’ apparent love for his wife and son, about how soon he had become disenchanted with Lord Voldemort’s reign, and he claimed it was really Bellatrix who had been running things at Malfoy Manor at the time he had been held there. 

Bartleby sat down with a surprised little smirk on his face. “No, no,” he said to the judge, when asked if he wished to cross-examine the witness. “He’s already done my job for me.” 

Harry came and took a seat by Ron and Luna. 

“That was very fair,” Molly heard Luna whisper to him. “In fact, you’ve rather changed my mind about him. Maybe I ought to get back up there and say some nicer things to balance out the bit where I accused him of the bad things he did to me.” 

They called Hermione next. She was the picture of composure, all prim and prepared in a smooth gray suit. Only her eyes showed her nerves, and she had to be told to speak up. She gave her testimony like she had memorized it—knowing her, she might have—and then rested her hands on the lip of the witness box. 

Bartleby rose to begin the cross-examination. Hermione smoothed her skirts nervously, but she flashed Molly and Ron a tiny smile back in the crowd. This was her former boss; she was probably best prepared of anyone. 

“Miss Granger, would you please disclose your relationship with the defendant’s family?” 

The little smile went right off Hermione’s face. “I’ve, er, I’ve known them since I was eleven,” she stammered. “That’s Mr. Malfoy, right there. I’d know him anywhere.” She pointed, answering the question Bartleby had put to all the other witnesses. 

Bartleby sniffed disdainfully. “Yes, thank you, Miss Granger. More specifically, would you please disclose your relationship with the defendant’s son?” 

Ron shifted next to Molly. “What’s going on?” 

Molly shook her head, frozen in something resembling horror. Hermione seemed much the same; her eyes were searching the courtroom for help and finding it nowhere. 

“Miss Granger?” 

Hermione swallowed. “We are...involved.” 

“In what way?” Bartleby pressed. 

“Er...romantically.” 

“What?!” Said Ron out loud. Hermione herself looked like a deer in headlights. 

The judge hammered on the gavel. “Will the public please respect the silence of the courtroom.” 

Ron sat back, shaking. 

Bartleby began to pace back and forth, staring Hermione down all the while. She shook under the weight of his gaze. “Has the defendant expressed an opinion on your relationship?” 

Molly noticed Lucius Malfoy seem to sit up straighter. There it was for the first time, in his eyes—hope. 

“He stated that he approved, Your Honor. Although his tone—”

“Thank you, Miss Granger. Would you say that Draco Malfoy was also partly responsible for your captivity, and negligent by not attempting to release you?” 

Hermione darted her eyes about, avoiding landing on anyone. “...Yes.” 

“And you have associated with him since? Of your own free will?” 

“I have, Your Honor.” Molly felt for Hermione; she looked very small in the witness box.

Bartleby ceased his pacing for a moment to peer at her over the top of his spectacles. “In vulnerable situations?” He asked, his voice dripping with implications. 

“I don’t understand,” Hermione protested, fidgeting. 

“You have spent extensive time alone with Draco Malfoy, time during which he could theoretically have taken the opportunity to harm you or hold you again in captivity?” 

“Yes, but he’s done nothing of the sort—”

Bartleby looked at her with mock surprise. “Then it sounds as though your captivity was not as big a deal as you have made it out to be!” He spun to face the jury, his voice echoing off the high ceilings of the chamber. “If it were really as terrible as she says, why would Miss Granger choose to put herself in a situation where the same people could harm her?” 

“It’s called forgiveness,” Hermione spat. 

Bartleby whirled to face her. “That’s out of turn, Miss Granger.” 

“I was answering the question.” Hermione’s voice got loud and clear, and she folded her arms across her chest. 

“The question was rhetorical.” 

“Yes, but it had an answer.” 

“Silence!” The judge rapped his gavel. “Mr. Bartleby, if you will please continue with your line of questioning.” 

Mr. Bartleby flourished his hand in a dramatic expression of gratitude and turned back to Hermione. “Does Mr. Draco Malfoy bear a physical resemblance to Mr. Lucius Malfoy?” 

Hermione scrunched up her face. “What has that got to do with anything?” 

“If you would please answer the question?” 

“No.” Hermione scowled at Lucius Malfoy. “Mr. Malfoy looks old and like you’ve been treating him terribly in prison. I mean, look at him; he’s all thin and bruised and defeated-looking.” Lucius looked offended. “Draco, on the other hand, is young and quite healthy.” 

Bartleby grimaced. “Miss Granger…” He forced the words out slowly. “Would you please explain to the prosecution how it is that you could stand to engage in a physical relationship with the son of the defendant when supposedly the defendant and his son were both agents in a terrible crime perpetrated against your person? Why, the very sight of him must give you flashbacks!” 

“Yes, I can explain it,” said Hermione icily, tilting her chin. Molly thought for a moment she looked quite like a Malfoy herself. “I can stand it—nay, _enjoy_ it—” (Ron clutched his hands to his chest like he had just been stabbed) “because it wasn’t Lucius or Draco who hurt me, it was Bellatrix Lestrange, may she rest in torment.” She shot a piercing look at Bartleby. “And frankly, I’m not sure how I stood to work for you for so long, because you’ve got dark curly hair just like her.” 

Bartleby’s mouth fell open. 

That was it for his line of questioning. 

Hermione pranced off the witness stand, her hair bouncing around her, frizzing up like it was getting ready to attack someone for her. She took a look at the row where Molly and Harry were sitting with Luna and Ron, then she turned on her heel and climbed the stairs at the far end of the courtroom, taking a seat alone on an empty bench toward the back. 

“Dang,” said Harry, shaking his head. “He tricked her into using her personal relationship to make Lucius look better. That was cruel. And after all the work she did building the defence case.” 

“She’s dating Draco?” Ron asked. He laughed humorlessly. “She’s got feelings for...for Draco?” 

Molly looked across the room at where Hermione was sitting by herself. She was sitting up straight, hands primly on her knees, looking at nothing. She remembered months ago at dinner, when Ron had accused Draco of just trying to get close to Hermione so he could make his family’s case look better, and she wondered briefly if Ron might have been right. 

She turned her attention back to the proceedings—Arthur had just taken the stand. She gave him a little thumbs up. 

“In accordance with the prosecution’s pretrial filing for a bad character witness,” Lester was saying, “the prosecution calls Arthur Weasley to testify about Mr. Malfoy’s attitude toward Muggles.” 

Arthur did a little happy bounce on the balls of his feet when he heard the word “Muggles.” Lucius, sitting in his cage, slouched his shoulders, looking miserable. 

Arthur briefly told the story of how Lucius had been rude to Hermione’s parents in the shop, and then a couple of additional stories about the sort of offhand remarks he would make about Muggles at work. 

Bartleby rose, staring down at a sheet of notes, and gave a little cough before he spoke. “Mr. Weasley, in what year exactly did these events take place, could you tell me?” 

“In 1992, 1994, and 1996,” Arthur answered promptly. 

“Mr. Weasley…” Bartleby peered over his glasses. “Wouldn’t you agree that it’s...ahem...been a while? Particularly the events of 1992?” 

Arthur frowned. “It had been a while since he took the Dark Mark when he chose to assist with You Know Who’s rise to power.” 

Bartleby grimaced and whispered something to his solicitor. They both nodded. He turned back to the judge. “We are finished examining the witness.” He took his seat. 

“Your Honor, I submit Mr. Weasley’s testimony as evidence that the defendant has a propensity to commit certain types of crimes,” said Lester, striding out from behind his desk into the middle of the floor. “Mr. Weasley, you may have a seat.” 

Arthur bounded off the witness stand and came to sit by Molly as Lester geared up for a quick speech. 

“In the defendant’s written record of interview, which I have with me here,” he produced it from his sleeve with a flourish, “the defendant provided no alibis—nay, not even a denial. He admitted to his location at the time of certain crimes, and even to his apparent allegiance at the time. The defence’s case rests on his feeling threatened. And yet, having heard Mr. Weasley’s testimony,” he turned to face the jury, “I would challenge you to say he would have acted much differently in the _absence_ of threat.” 

“How did I do?” Mr. Weasley asked, scooting in between Molly and Ron. 

“You were brilliant.” She patted his arm. 

“What’s wrong with Hermione?” Arthur looked over at her and gave her a little wave, which she half-heartedly returned. 

Molly leaned in to whisper so Ron wouldn’t hear. “Bartleby found out about her relationship with Draco and used it to discredit her. He implied that the fact she’s kissed Draco means she was exaggerating how she was treated during the war, and that she shouldn’t be able to face either of the Malfoys if they had really hurt her.” 

“Well, that’s absolute bollocks,” said Arthur. “What about all of us who had to go back to work after the First Wizarding War and report to the Death Eaters who helped murder our families? And besides, didn’t Draco actually get off on these charges?” 

“It was a plea deal,” whispered Andromeda, who must have been listening. “They didn’t investigate after that. But he probably would have got off; he’s got a much stronger case for having been coerced than his father does.” 

“Yes, exactly!” Arthur nodded ferociously. “I mean, I still haven’t got much love for either of them, but Lucius has always been a complete prick, and Draco was just an idiot boy. He’s much improved without his father around.” 

“Language, dear!” Molly bristled. Arthur sat back. 

Lester was just wrapping up his speech. “This is a man who pressed his only son into Lord Voldemort’s service,” he was saying. “This is a man who spoke openly of his pureblood ideology. Threatened or not, this was a man who welcomed the Lord Voldemort under his roof with open arms, regarding his presence as the greatest honor in the world. And therefore he ought to be held responsible for everything that happened after, because he chose to join Lord Voldemort in full knowledge of what that meant.” He handed the written record of interview to a court usher, who ferried it to the jury. “The prosecution rests.” 

The judge rapped his gavel on the desk. “We move to open the case for the defence.” 

Bartleby called Lucius Malfoy, who was trembling, from hunger or injury it seemed rather than fear. He had to lean on an Auror for support as he made his way to the box. 

“I regret everything,” he began, his voice hoarse, clutching the sides of the box for support. “I wish my wife and son could be in the room to hear this. I wish I had been a better father. I was blinded—blinded by the ideology my own father forced into me; blinded by the influence of terrible friends; blinded by an offer of power and by my own weakness.” 

He paused, and for a moment it looked like he might collapse, but he managed to remain standing. 

“Mr. Malfoy?” Bartleby prompted him, shuffling a sheaf of papers. “If I could lead you through your evidence…” 

Lucius shook his head. “He sold me on visions of a world, visions of a paradise where magic had no need to be hidden and was practiced only in its purest, strongest form. In my family we have always believed magic is a treasure to be wielded with the utmost care and respect.” 

Up in the stands, Arthur snorted and struggled to hide his laughter behind his hands. “Says the man who dangled a Muggle family by their underpants at the World Cup,” he whispered to Molly. “Care and respect, my arse.” 

“Like many in this room, I was raised on stories of a ‘better’ age,” Lucius continued, not having heard Arthur. “But after Lord Voldemort forced himself into my home and slaughtered an esteemed professor on my dining room table, after he sent my son on a hopeless mission so he would have an excuse to kill him to get back at me, after he threatened and tormented and humiliated my family, I realized there never was a golden age for magic. It never existed. And all the cruelty such an age necessitated could be turned at a moment’s notice upon those previously held in high regard.” 

“Mr. Malfoy,” Bartleby hissed from the side of his mouth, “You’re not helping your case. If you would let me lead you through your testimony…” 

Lucius ignored him. “I am sorry,” he said loudly, his cracked voice echoing off the walls of the courtroom. “I picked the wrong side. And frankly, after months spent without a wand, I don’t care anymore if I never practice magic again. Snap my wand and send me away. Only, don’t separate me from my family. Don’t take away my soul and make me forget they ever existed—they are all that has ever mattered to me in this world.” He stood back and gestured to the Aurors that he was finished, and they came to lead him back to the cage. 

Bartleby’s eyebrows shot up his forehead and he wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Very well, it appears the defendant does not wish to go through the evidence for his own defence. I should like to move to call the first witness for the defence, Mr. Draco Malfoy.” 

Draco came walking out, head held high, shoulders back, confident. He was dressed in clean, expensive-looking dress robes, and he took the stand and looked out proudly as the oath was prepared. 

“Harry, did you know?” Ron whispered across Luna. 

“Know what?” 

“About...you know.” Ron made a figure with his hands. “Them two. Him and Hermione.” If Harry made any response, Molly didn’t catch it, but Ron made a low whistle. “Blimey, you knew, didn’t you. Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“It wasn’t my place,” whispered Harry, trying to distract himself with the proceedings. 

“I think they make a lovely couple,” said Luna, staring dreamily at Draco, who was finishing up the oath. Ron glared and yanked his hand out of hers. Completely unperturbed, she simply folded hers back around his. 

Molly turned back to the scene in front of them. As Draco was serving as a witness for the defence, Bartleby had stood up to lead him through his testimony. 

“Is this your father?” 

“Yes,” said Draco, leaning casually on the edge of the box. 

“Did you live under the same roof as him when Lord Voldemort was around?”

“Yes.”

“Did you feel threatened?”

“Very much so.”

“By whom?”

“By practically everybody, sir.”

“By that do you mean Lord Voldemort?”

“Yes, him. Also the Lestranges and the parade of Death Eaters he kept bringing about the house. I felt threatened by my father as well.” Bartleby glared at him. “I wanted to please him, and moreover I wanted to avoid his anger should I disappoint him.”

“You are not the one on trial, Mr. Malfoy. Might I remind you you got off scot-free?”

“I am aware of that,” said Draco politely. “However I think it is relevant to this case that I state how I felt about my father. And under Section 12 paragraph 2 of the MLC, I must not only tell the truth as provided under oath, but you are also forbidden from twisting that truth by means of posing leading questions. You asked me who threatened me; I gave you a comprehensive list. To leave my father off it would be a lie.”

In the cage, Lucius put his head in his hands.

“What is he playing at?” Arthur whispered to Molly. “Is he trying to get him found guilty? If he’s not careful, he’s going to get him the Kiss!” 

Molly shook her head, having no idea. 

Down below, Bartleby had decided to switch to a new line of questioning. 

“Did he harm any Muggles?”

“He would talk about it.”

“But did you ever see him harm a Muggle?”

“I did not.”

“Did you ever assist him in harming a Muggle?”

“I did not. He forbade me to associate with Muggles.”

“Did he associate with Muggles himself?” 

“No, he avoided it.” 

“So Lucius Malfoy’s threats against Muggles did not escalate to meaningful actions.” Bartleby nodded proudly to the jury. “And furthermore, you witnessed him give his approval of your relationship with Miss Granger, who is born of Muggle parents?”

Draco’s brows knitted together angrily. “Bartleby, if you would please leave Miss Granger out of it. She’s not a tool to be used in your case, and besides, we don’t know if he really meant it or if he just said it, because you wouldn’t let me speak with him alone.”

Molly leaned forward—so perhaps Ron was wrong and Draco wasn’t trying to use her. 

“Mr. Malfoy, you are not exactly testifying for the defence here.”

Draco cocked an eyebrow. “Yes, and would the jury please make a note of that? I think they will find it very telling.”

“Mr. Malfoy, would you say your father acted under duress from Lord Voldemort?” 

“I dunno. Probably,” said Draco. “I can say he was relieved to get sent to Azkaban and have an excuse not to be around him.” 

_“Thank_ you,” breathed Bartleby. 

“I think he came to regret his membership in the Death Eaters,” Draco continued. “He didn’t exactly have the guts to defect, but he definitely lost his enthusiasm for the cause.” 

“The guts to defect?” Bartleby turned to look at Draco; it was like an idea had come to him. “Yes, let’s explore this a moment. How much guts does it take to defect from the Death Eaters?” 

“Loads,” said Draco casually. “More than most people have got.” 

“Have you got that kind of guts?” 

Draco shrugged. “I had stopped fighting for them by the end. My parents had as well. And I defected at the last, if you’ll remember; I helped Harry Potter defeat him by tossing him my wand after his return.” 

“So you were no longer a Death Eater at that point,” said Bartleby, his eyes glinting. 

“No, not meaningfully.” 

“So why was your father still a Death Eater, when you weren’t?” 

“I never said he was,” said Draco patiently. “I said he was one at the time the crimes he is on trial for were committed, when he imprisoned people in our house.” 

“Thank you,” said Bartleby, breathing heavily. “I yield the floor to the prosecution for cross-examination.” 

Lester got up then, shaking his sleeves, back and strode out to the floor. 

“Good morning, Mr. Malfoy,” he began. “How are you today?” 

“Doing well, thank you, and yourself?” Draco answered easily. 

“Quite well, thank you.” Lester nodded primly. “So, Mr. Malfoy. You witnessed your father taking several of the witnesses prisoner and mistreating them. Could you please walk us through what you saw?” 

Draco did, and Molly noticed that at one point he met Hermione’s eyes in the public gallery and frowned, looking concerned. She looked toward Hermione, who was holding herself very stiffly and who looked upset. Draco mouthed something at her and she shook her head rapidly. He started to talk faster. 

“And could you tell us about the treatment your father received under Lord Voldemort?” Lester asked, once Draco had finished his account. 

“Certainly.” Draco took a deep breath and stared down at the wood of the witness box before commencing. This tale was rather more sympathetic to Lucius; Voldemort had apparently done several horrendous things, and at a couple moments Draco’s voice wavered like he was having difficulty getting them out. 

“Thank you, Mr. Malfoy,” said Lester when he had finished. “I have just a couple more questions before we let you go.” 

Draco nodded, looking a bit drained. 

“Did you plead guilty to the overlapping charges in your case?” 

“I did,” said Draco, looking at his hands. 

“So don’t you agree that the court should uphold the precedent set by your case by delivering a guilty verdict, as you must think your father is even more guilty than you are?” 

The judge interrupted here, rapping his gavel. “The witness took a plea deal and there was no investigation; therefore it set no precedent. Will the jury please disregard.” 

Lester nodded, chastened. “Very well. I have just one last question for you. In the absence of any threat—before his return, before his presence, back when he was at the height of his career and in full possession of his wand—did your father speak highly of Lord Voldemort, and advocate for his program of blood-cleansing?” 

 

Molly tensed up. Draco hadn’t heard the prior testimony; probably didn’t know that saying yes could strike a death blow for the defence argument.

“He did,” said Draco clearly. In the cage, Lucius gave a low moan, shook his head, and looked at the floor. 

“Thank you, Mr. Malfoy.” Lester pulled back his sleeves. “I yield the floor to the defence, should the defence wish to follow up on the cross-examination.” 

“The defence does,” said Bartleby, a vein pulsing in his neck. He advanced toward the witness box in a way that reminded Molly of a charging bull. 

“He’s got to discredit him if he wants to get Lucius off,” Andromeda whispered, not taking her eyes off Draco. She shook her head numbly. “I hope he doesn’t go too far.” 

Bartleby took a deep breath and spun on his heel to face the jury, his hands clasped behind his back. 

“My. My, my, my.” He shook his head theatrically. “That was a lot of accusations, wasn’t it? Young Mr. Malfoy really seems to have it out for his father. I would like the jury to please remember that Mr. Draco Malfoy speaks as someone who has a lot to gain by restoring his public image.” He looked at the ground pensively, then began to pace. “Ask yourselves this: can you really trust the word of a Death Eater?” 

“I’m not a Death Eater,” said Draco. 

Bartleby turned and sneered at him. “Oh, really? Would you please roll up your left sleeve for the jury.”

Draco hesitated a moment, then a smile broke across his face. He quickly shook back his sleeve, revealing a colorful tattoo on his forearm: a bouquet of yellow Narcissus flowers. 

“What’s this?” Bartleby sputtered. 

“It’s a Muggle tattoo,” said Draco calmly. “By Muggles. Who I was very nice to, by the way. The flowers are in honor of my mother.” 

“But it’s covering the Dark Mark, isn’t it?” 

“Yes, it is,” said Draco. “It’s my latest attempt to completely disavow my past beliefs. The Mark doesn’t come off, by the way; I nearly killed myself trying to blast it off. You can’t blame my father for still having his if he hasn’t got access to a good tattoo artist in Azkaban.” 

“But you _did_ take the Dark Mark.” 

Draco raised an eyebrow. “As the barrister for the defence, do you really want the story of the relative of mine who made me do that?” 

“No, no,” gasped Bartleby, collapsing into his seat. “The defence is finished questioning the witness.” 

Draco gave a little smile and walked confidently up into the stands, where he hurried to take a seat by Hermione. He put his arm around her and asked her something; she shook her head and started whispering rapidly. He whispered something back and took her in his arms, gently patting her hair. 

Molly chanced a look at Ron, who looked like a fuming tea kettle. 

Her attention was drawn back to the front as Narcissa Malfoy came in. She looked just as proud and put together as her son, but her walk was slower and her eyes rather more bereft. She squeezed her husband’s hand through the bars of the cage as she passed before she swore her oath and Bartleby rose to question her. 

“Mrs. Malfoy, thank you so much for being here today,” he said with a sugary bow, as if she hadn’t received a subpoena. Narcissa inclined her head generously. “You were the closest to the defendant throughout all of these proceedings, were you not?” Narcissa nodded again, her long lashes making her look very sad. “As someone with arguably the most information about Lucius’ deeds and feelings during the period under question, would you please tell us what really happened?” 

Narcissa sighed deeply before acquiescing. She had a honey-like voice, Molly found herself thinking; deep and sweet and thick. It was the sort of voice that could lull you to sleep if you weren’t careful, and indeed after a few minutes Molly found herself elbowing Arthur to keep him from nodding off. Narcissa was not a fast speaker, and by the time she finished with her version of events, which made Lucius come off looking like the ill-fated hero of a Greek tragedy, Molly’s stomach was growling. Only Lucius seemed to have grown stronger from listening; he was sitting up straight now and some of the color had returned to his hollow cheeks. 

“Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy,” said Bartleby, bowing with a hand over his heart. Lester rolled his eyes. “We are so sorry to have to put you through this.” 

“Oh my god,” Andromeda whispered, sucking in her breath. “She always was a dramatic one.” She shook her head like she regretted coming. 

Lester got up then, and wasted no time with bows or apologies. “Mrs. Malfoy,” he asked, shuffling a few notes in his hands, “was Mr. Malfoy ever violent with the help? Did he, for example, physically mistreat any of the house-elves under his care, or take out his anger on those who worked around the house?” 

Narcissa blinked widely. “Yes,” she said, taken by surprise. She glanced at Lucius, who was staring daggers at her, and looked away apologetically. 

“Thank you. And Mrs. Malfoy...my apologies for asking such a delicate question...but did your husband ever behave abusively toward you?” 

It was like the calm of the courtroom shattered. Those who had been dozing off were suddenly wide awake; all eyes were on Narcissa. 

Down in the box, Narcissa shook her head, biting her lip. She said nothing. 

“Mrs. Malfoy?” Lester looked at her over his papers. “I’m going to need you to answer the question.” 

Narcissa closed her eyes, turning slightly toward the jury, trying to get away from Lucius’ gaze. “...Please don’t make me do this.” It came out in a whisper, scarcely audible, but caught on a draft and echoed throughout the entire chamber. 

Lester’s response cut cleanly through the baited silence of the gathered audience. “I’m going to need a yes or a no answer.” 

Narcissa took a deep, shuddering breath. Out of the corner of her eye, Molly saw Draco rise halfway out of his chair. “Sometimes.” 

“Thank you.” The courtroom breathed out collectively in the same moment. Draco sat back down; Hermione’s arm was around him now. Lester glanced back down at his notes. “Was he ever abusive with the boy?” 

“No,” breathed Andromeda, wrenching her eyes toward Lucius, who looked like a carved Roman statue, every ugly flawed detail captured in marble for posterity. 

“...not often,” said Narcissa. Draco looked frozen; Hermione was whispering something to him and he nodded dumbly. 

“So he behaved violently toward others, including his own family, in the absence of Lord Voldemort? When he was in full possession of his freedom and his wand?” Lester peered at Narcissa over the sheaf of papers. She was looking off into the distance and seemed to be scarcely breathing. “Mrs. Malfoy?” 

“Yes,” said Narcissa, looking at him at last. 

“Thank you.” Lester inclined his head sharply. “The prosecution rests.” 

Bartleby rose quickly; he had been having an animated conversation of whispers with his solicitor throughout her cross-examination. He leapt to his feet now, seeming to not totally have a plan. 

“Mrs. Malfoy, these events of family and house-elf violence occurred solely during the period when Lord Voldemort was in residence in your house, did they not?” 

Narcissa shook her head sadly. “They did not.” 

“Very well,” said Bartleby, his eyes popping open, seeming at a loss. He sat back down. “The defence rests.” 

Narcissa floated off the stand then, exiting while managing not to look toward Lucius at all. She swept up into the stands, where Draco rose to greet her, putting his arm around her. 

“I had better go to her,” Andromeda whispered, gathering her things. “I’ll see you later.” 

“Goodbye,” Molly whispered. 

 

Lucius had managed to scrounge up only one witness to testify to his good character—Horace Slughorn, his old head of house. He was summarily sent back out of the witness box after a couple of scathing questions from Lester about how long it had been since he had actually interacted with the defendant. 

Now the judge presented a brief consideration of legal issues, which Molly sat through numbly. She didn’t really understand the difference between a _per minas_ defence and a mitigation, and felt it wasn’t really addressed to her anyway. She looked around at Ron, who seemed calmer, and over by Draco, who was seated between Hermione, Narcissa, and Andromeda. They were whispering quietly among themselves, and Andromeda had an arm around her sister. 

“He’s going to get the Kiss, isn’t he,” Molly whispered to Arthur. He nodded solemnly. 

“They’re not going to be able to convince the jury he won’t reoffend after that.” 

Molly looked anxiously over at Hermione. She had mentioned in her message something about a plan. Molly wanted to see Lucius Malfoy punished as much as anyone, but even after the last evidence she didn’t think she could bear to see him made soulless. 

From the Ministry’s perspective, the Kiss made sense. It meant criminals could never reoffend. But what a burden to place on their families: never able to reconcile; never really able to move on.

Andromeda was right. No one deserved the Dementor’s Kiss. But then what was Draco playing at, practically nailing the lid on the coffin…?

 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll be posting Part 2 in a couple of days! It’s kinda hard to tell on here but Part 1 was 20 pages long and I didn’t have time to finish the rest on top of work irl, so it’ll be coming a little later ’:)


	23. Community Impact, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucius' trial draws to a close.

“The Dementor’s Kiss is controversial, but our Magical forefathers had good reasons for allowing its use,” the judge was saying. “The jury has been assembled from a number of the defendant’s peers, and all have said they are willing to hand down the Kiss as a penalty.”

Molly held Arthur’s hand, her jaw clenched. 

There was a slight commotion in the row, and she looked up to see Harry climbing over Luna and Ron on his way out. 

“Harry! What’s he doing?” She hissed to Ron. He shook his head and threw his hands in the air in an exaggerated gesture of “I don’t know.” 

Harry headed down the stairs against the far wall, then crossed the courtroom to the exit just in front of the public gallery. The press all turned to watch him leave, and the judge raised his eyebrows but did not move to stop him. Molly looked to Draco and Hermione; they were whispering and looking at Harry; Draco looked upset. She turned back to watch the trial. 

Lester had quite ignored the commotion and was now presenting the prosecution’s closing argument. He was going through the charges, illustrating how the evidence they had heard pointed to a disturbed man who was likely to reoffend. 

“What good is this man to society?” He asked in conclusion, gesturing to Draco and Narcissa, who both looked unhappy to be singled out like that. “He has done nothing but evil even to those whom nature dictated he should protect. I ask you, in a case such as this where every question asked of the witnesses unveils evidence of still more crimes than the man has even been charged with, what doubt can there be of his capability or his culpability? This man’s actions were soulless and he deserves to be rendered as such. Thank you.” He took his seat. 

Molly shook her head and grasped Arthur’s arm for comfort, wondering if she could follow Harry’s lead and leave before the impending guilty verdict and the messy sentencing that would come just after. Poor Bartleby was on the floor now, trying his best to defend his client. 

“Moving as some of what we have heard may be,” he was saying, “I should like to remind you that this is no divine judgement to be handed down upon a man’s whole character. Lucius Malfoy is not on trial for abusing his family. He is not here on charges of cruelty to Muggles. He is here because he is charged with harbouring a fugitive.” 

Molly groaned inwardly and closed her eyes. That was the wrong tack to take. Appealing to the surgical, sterilized side of justice that asked the jury to set their emotions aside; it might work, but it would leave the public and the press with a bad taste in their mouths. 

He kept going. “He is here on charges of false imprisonment, and yet the prosecution has failed to prove that my client was not falsely imprisoned himself. He is on trial as an accessory to grand assault, but at the time he was incapable of assaulting anyone…”

“He’s right,” said Arthur, leaning forward. Molly’s eyes snapped open. 

“How do you mean?” 

Arthur shrugged, still listening intently. “The only thing the prosecution has really, truly got hard evidence that he did with no duress was join the Death Eaters, and he already served a sentence for that. And it’s not like he tried to get out of Azkaban to escape that sentence; he didn’t try at all until the Death Eaters took over the prison.” 

“Doesn’t escaping from Azkaban automatically sentence one to the Dementor’s Kiss?” Molly protested. 

“But he’s not on trial for that.”

“True.” Molly leaned forward, listening to the end of Bartleby’s passionate and hopeless speech. 

“It is not enough to be nearly sure, or almost sure, or simply convinced that this is the type of man who would do such a thing. If you are not completely certain that the accused did commit the particular crimes of which he was accused, then there is no place in this courtroom for a guilty verdict. Thank you.” He returned to his seat. 

The jury whispered among themselves, some taking notes. 

“Thank you,” said the judge. “I shall now dispense legal directions to the jury, and remind them that the burden of proof rests on the prosecution.” Molly listened intently, trying to understand the legal issues at play. It sounded like the jury would need to consider each count separately, and he could be found guilty of all or none or any number. 

“The jury will now retire before returning a verdict,” said the court usher, to the tune of rustling robes and scraping chairs as the dozen witches and wizards filed into the next room. 

“Finally,” said Molly, standing up from her chair. “I’m starving. Do you think we’ll have time to get lunch?” 

“No,” said Arthur, tugging her back down. “I doubt it will take them very long. Just give them a few minutes.”

Molly sighed angrily, wishing she still had her biscuits. 

Arthur was right. Just twenty minutes later the jury filed back in, and their appointed foreman rose to give the verdict. 

“Back so soon?” The judge asked, to a wave of nervous laughter from the courtroom. “And what verdict does the jury find?” 

“We find the defendant guilty on all counts,” said the foreman simply. 

Molly closed her eyes, exhaling in sharp relief. Kiss or no Kiss, the man was guilty; to see him walk free a third time would have been maddening. 

“Well!” Said Arthur. “Guilty it is. Struck down by the swift hand of justice.” 

Molly leaned her head against his shoulder, smiling a little as the judge’s words washed over her ears. 

“Lucius Malfoy is guilty in the eyes of the law. The jury is dismissed and we move to the sentencing portion of the trial. The prosecution may begin by laying out sentencing guidelines.” 

Lester rose, bouncy, pleased with himself. “Thank you, Your Honor. As you are aware, the counts on which Mr. Malfoy was just found guilty carry a range of penalties of varying degrees of severity; half of them carry the Dementor’s Kiss as their highest degree. Perhaps the defendant’s actions do not merit the Kiss in and of themselves, but I should recommend to the judge that the fact that the defendant brazenly refused to plead guilty and the fact that the offenses were motivated by blood hostility are aggravating factors.” 

“The Kiss will render the defendant a burden on his family,” said Bartleby, rising in defence, his previous swagger much diminished. “They shall have to feed him, and house him. Considering the evidence given by the defendant’s wife, I move that such a sentence would constitute collective punishment by forcing two victim parties to care daily for an abuser. Therefore the court ought to return a lesser sentence.” 

“Thank you,” said the judge. “If those presenting victim impact statements would please come forward.” 

“Victim impact statements?” Ron whispered, frowning. “Was that the thing they wanted me to come in for?” 

“Yeah,” said Luna, “but you said they were a corrupt organization and were going to let him off so what was the point, remember?” Ron shrugged. 

Bartleby rose and looked back into the gallery, where Narcissa, her face white as a sheet of tissue paper that might tear at any moment, gave him the slightest nod.

“My client would like to have the Malfoy victim impact statement read by another member of her household,” he declared to the jury. He snapped his fingers and a house-elf appeared in the witness box, only her long ears visible above the top of the box. One of the bailiffs quickly cast a spell to shrink the box so it was house-elf sized, revealing a wide-eyed, trembling elf with big brown eyes who was wrapped in a clean, frilly pillowcase. “Miss Peesy, if you will please deliver the prepared victim impact statement.”

“We fear in case Master comes home,” said the elf in a high clear voice, trembling viciously as she wrung her hands on her pink pillowcase. “Peesy is afraid even if Master comes home without his soul. Things Master did in the past came from a beastly part of him, and Peesy fears that taking away his soul would not take away his cruelty. Peesy is begging you, sirs, do not send Master back to Mistress and Young Master and poor Peesy.”

“Thank you, Peesy,” said Bartleby curtly. The house-elf snapped her fingers and Disapparated with a loud crack.

Molly chanced a look at Narcissa, who was sitting so still it looked like she was trying to dissociate from her own body, and then down at Lucius, who was glaring at his wife with a white-hot fury. She shivered at the force of his gaze. “Poor Narcissa,” she whispered to Arthur, pursing her lips. “She’s in a bit of a bind, isn’t she? Lester is really pushing for the Kiss.” 

Arthur shook his head. “I know. Oh, sorry Luna—are you going somewhere?” 

Luna had just asked to be excused and was currently clambering over their knees. Molly and Arthur pressed themselves back into the bench to allow her to pass. 

“She’s got her statement to read,” Ron whispered. “She thought she was required to give one, but apparently she misread it; Hermione isn’t doing one and Harry’s gone goodness-knows-where.” 

“I’d’ve done one about Ginny,” Arthur whispered. “But they said I wasn’t a victim, just a witness.” 

Molly placed a comforting hand on his knee as Luna took the stand. 

“This is my victim impact statement,” she said, her voice soft and clear. “Mr. Malfoy’s actions caused a lot of distress to my father. As a father himself, he should have known better. I am okay personally; I have had a lot of nightmares and feel very sad at times but I am told that is because of a Wrackspurt infestation. It should go away when my turnips reach maturity.” 

“Is that all, Miss Lovegood?” Lester asked after she had stood there silently another minute. 

“Yes,” said Luna. She stepped off the witness stand. 

The door to the courtroom opened then, and a tall wizard ducked under the frame to come in. He was clothed in purple robes and had waist-length dreadlocks pulled into a loose topknot.

Molly nudged Arthur. “Is that Williamson? Ron’s old boss?” 

Ron heard her and tried to hide behind Luna, who had just come back. “Don’t let him see me,” he said in a panicked whisper. 

Arthur nodded, frowning. “What’s he doing here?” 

Williamson handed a note to the bailiff, who took it to the judge. 

“The Auror office would like to enter a community impact statement to be presented by Gordon Williamson, head of the Department,” the judge read. He inclined his head. “Mr. Williamson, if you will please step forward.” 

“Ah.” Arthur sat back. “It’s like a victim impact statement, but for a group.” 

Molly chanced a look over at Hermione’s side of the courtroom, where she and Draco seemed quite heartened by Williamson’s arrival—as she watched, Hermione pointed the Auror out to Draco, and Draco reacted by grinning and kissing her on the cheek. Molly furrowed her brow and leaned forward with interest as Williamson took the floor, pacing about like a lawyer rather than taking the box as a witness. 

“Your Honor,” he began, his baritone voice ringing out and reaching every corner of the chamber and his long purple robes swooping majestically behind him, “The Auror office is heartened to hear of the guilty verdict against Lucius Malfoy. He has lobbied our office for years and we have spent too much of our valuable time and energy resisting his pressures, both through financial incentives and personal arguments. But that is not the community impact I have been asked to present here today.” 

He turned to face the barristers’ desks. “The impact on the community I present is on behalf of not just the Auror office, but of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and the Wizengamot as well. This trial has implications that stretch beyond this room, and I come, moreover, to open a new charge against the defendant, and to take someone else in this room into custody.” 

His eyes danced over the faces in the gallery; Ron buried his face in the collar of his jumper. 

“Ron, stop it; he doesn’t mean you!” Molly whispered, swatting his arm. 

“The Auror office has come across some compelling evidence of an additional criminal enterprise committed in connection with this crime,” said Williamson, turning instead to the cage. “I would like to present an additional indictment to Lucius Malfoy.” He swept over to the cage and handed Lucius a roll of parchment, which he opened with trembling hands. 

Williamson returned to the middle of the floor, his raised voice echoing dramatically off the walls. “The Wizengamot has requested to indict Lucius Malfoy on suspicion of several criminal counts in connection with _Ministry of Magic vs. Bartimeus Bartleby,_ a case which was opened this morning by the High Court.” 

“Bartleby?” Molly shrieked, clapping a hand over her mouth. She found the defence lawyer, who was standing behind his desk, clutching the back of his chair, trembling. 

“Mr. Bartleby, you are under arrest under suspicion of high treason, embracery, abuse of attorney-client privilege, and perversion of the course of justice.” Williamson’s lips curled pleasantly. “Mr. Malfoy, I believe you’re about to have some company in Azkaban.” He turned to the judge and gave a low bow. “That is all.” 

“What!” Ron looked back and forth between Molly and Bartleby, confused. 

“She told them, didn’t she!” said Molly, feeling suddenly delighted. She tugged on Arthur’s sleeve. “She _told_ them!” 

“Hermione found evidence Lucius was bribing the jury,” Arthur explained to Ron and Luna, who received the news with some shock. “It’s why she recused herself, and why Kingsley swapped out the jury.” 

Ron opened and shut his mouth several times. “If she recused herself over that, not a relationship, then why is she still bonking Malfoy?” 

“That’s a rude way of putting it, don’t you think?” Arthur chided. 

Ron frowned and crossed his arms, looking back to the front. The judge had his chin in his hands and looked completely done with the entire process. 

“I am in a bit of a bind here,” he said at last. “It appears from the indictment that Mr. Malfoy may have been able to stack a Wizengamot jury from his cell in a grave display of embracery. Such powers of persuasion and reach would make him an ongoing danger to Wizarding Society, and I should like to see such a one rendered powerless through the Dementor’s Kiss.” 

He scraped his hands along his face. “However, to do so would be a gross miscarriage of justice, according to the precedent set by _Castor Foggerty vs. Azkaban Prison_ and laid in law by Section 230 of the Magical Law Code, the Kiss must be performed no later than fourteen days post sentencing to prevent undue mental distress on the part of the accused. To do otherwise would represent a cruel and unusual punishment.” 

He stared at Bartleby, whom Williamson was currently wrapping up in conjured chains, and put his chin in his hands. “And yet fourteen days will not allow a fair trial against Mr. Bartleby, or indeed against Mr. Malfoy, who apparently stands as co-accused. Should I assign him the Kiss, it would only be suspended, and Mr. Malfoy might walk free with no punishment.” 

He paused for a moment, thinking, then shook his head and straightened up. “I have chosen the sentence. Taking into account the weight of his crimes, I move to sentence Mr. Malfoy to the next highest penalty allowed by law. He shall serve a term of twenty years in Azkaban for each of his crimes, without possibility of parole. I move further that no more than two of the sentences may be served concurrently.” He tapped his gavel to the desk. “This marks the end of the trial of Lucius Malfoy.” 

There was silence for a moment, then the courtroom erupted with voices, some boos, and a couple of scattered cheers. 

“He’s got life!” Molly declared, counting off on her fingers. “Twenty years for each crime, all of them guilty, and he can’t serve more than two at once, that’s—he’s not going to live that long!” 

Arthur jumped up from his seat then sat back down again, his mouth hanging open. He looked to Hermione on the other side of the room, then back. 

“What is it?” Molly asked, alarmed. “He hasn’t got the Kiss, but he has been sentenced. That’s right, isn’t it?” 

“Don’t you see—” Arthur pointed at Hermione, still gaping. Molly followed his gaze, but all she saw was Hermione laughing and hugging Draco and Narcissa. “She’s done it, they pulled that off, don’t you—” 

“What?” Molly was confused. She looked to Ron to see if he might have understood, but he and Luna were both watching Arthur, looking flummoxed. 

Arthur sat back down, gesticulating wildly. “He was going to get the Kiss,” he said, “but they couldn’t let that happen, because he couldn’t come home. So Hermione must have opened the other indictment and thrown her boss under the bus to make sure Lucius goes to prison. It’s all about the timing.” 

The gears in Molly’s brain were turning at full speed. “So Draco saved his father by condemning him?” 

Arthur nodded rapidly. “Exactly!” 

“Wait, you mean to tell me he just got out of the Kiss on a TECHNICALITY?” Ron roared, looking over to the other side of the gallery where Draco was now busily engaged snogging Hermione’s face off. 

“Yes!” Said Arthur, grinning. “Harry must have been in on it; it would have been too suspicious if one of them had left to make sure the indictment arrived on time. Oh, they’re going to make excellent lawyers.” He rubbed his hands gleefully. “I wonder if they could represent my office in making a few slight adjustments to the International Statute of Secrecy.” 

“Oh, you.” Molly rolled her eyes and heaved herself to her feet. “Let’s please get something to eat.” 

They stepped into the aisle, joining the throng of people trying to crowd out of the courtroom. In the back, Lucius Malfoy was being dragged away by Aurors; no one in the gallery seemed to be paying him the slightest attention anymore. Molly found that heartening; with him in prison, everyone could slowly start to forget he had ever existed. 

“Kingsley says he’ll get rid of the Dementors soon, anyway,” Luna was saying to Ron as they slowly descended the stairs. “Father cornered him for an interview last week when he was showering at the gym. There are just a few sticklers left in MLE who are worried about where the Dementors will go if they banish them from Azkaban. Course, the budget too; they’d have to start actually hiring guards…” Ron seemed to be listening patiently, but he still kept glancing over to where Hermione and Draco were hand in hand a dozen steps above him. 

“Watch out, looks like a press gauntlet,” Arthur whispered to Molly, pointing out the door. Sure enough there were loud voices coming out from the hallway. “Keep your head down and let’s not say anything.” 

“But what if I want to be in _Witch Weekly?”_ Molly protested. She didn’t think she’d mind being quoted on something that didn’t have to do with her family. 

They struggled out into the packed hall, joining the throng all waiting for a turn on the lift. 

“Ron! Mr. Ron Weasley!” Some of the reporters started jostling. “How does it feel to have your ex-girlfriend leave you for Mr. Malfoy?” Ron ducked his head, biting his lip. 

“Stop it,” said Luna, raising a hand, her eyes glinting dangerously. “He’s a _Quibbler_ exclusive.” They backed off after that, only to pounce when Narcissa entered the hall. 

“Mrs. Malfoy, is it true what you said about your husband abusing you?” 

“Mrs. Malfoy, could you describe in detail the kinds of abuse?”

“Shut up,” said Draco, through clenched teeth. He and Hermione each had an arm around Narcissa, with Andromeda leading the way like an angry snow plow, and the crowd parted swiftly to allow them to get right on the lift. 

“My,” said Molly, shaking her head as the gate clanged shut behind them. “Who would have known?” 

Arthur nodded sadly. “No wonder he was in favor of a Social Services department.”

* * *

They managed to get on the lift themselves after a few more minutes, and went to Arthur’s office for a sit down to let the lobby empty out a bit. He summoned up some sandwiches—Rosemary and their co-worker Barnaby were out on a house call—and they ate ravenously, it being already mid-afternoon. 

“Wait,” said Ron, setting down his third sandwich. He stepped out of the office, and Molly peered around the doorway to see where he went. 

“No!” She exclaimed, and tried to stand up. Draco and Hermione were out in the hall waiting for the lift and hadn’t yet seen Ron approaching them. But Arthur gently put a hand on her knee. 

“Give it a minute,” he whispered, pointing. 

Ron walked up; Hermione noticed his arrival first and awkwardly tucked one foot behind her ankle. Draco tensed up like he was preparing for a fight. 

“Congratulations,” said Ron, his voice sounding a little flat, but he took Draco’s hand and shook it. “I’m happy for you two.” 

Hermione stared at him for a moment, and Draco didn’t seem to quite believe him, but then Hermione threw her arms around Ron’s neck. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I love you, Ronald.” 

“Love you too,” he said, swaying a bit from the ferocity of her hug. He gestured at Draco and pulled him into an awkward side hug. “You’re both coming to my next gig, all right?” 

Hermione stepped back, giggling, and pushed her hair out of her face. “Yeah. We’ll be there.” 

Draco grinned and shook his hand for real this time. “Wouldn’t miss it.” 

“Brilliant.” Ron put his hand in his pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels. The lift pinged behind him. “Er...bye, then.” 

“Bye,” said Hermione, slipping her arm into Draco’s and waving at him shyly. “See you.” She and Draco stepped into the lift and vanished from sight. 

Ron stood a moment, facing away, as it closed; then he steadied himself and came back into Arthur’s room. He took his former seat, ignoring everyone’s waiting stares, and picked up the rest of his sandwich. 

“What? I’m starving.” He shoved it messily into his mouth. Molly clasped Arthur’s hand and grinned at him.


	24. Public Relations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny admits she's having nightmares that Fred's soul might not be at rest.

Press coverage of the trial was widespread and sensational. The papers the owls dragged in over the next few days were plastered with pull quotes and interviews and sketches of the participants, charmed to move just like a photograph would. 

Molly scanned through them eagerly at first, but when the fourth day passed and there was still no sign of anyone having drawn her in the background, she stopped caring so much. She just let them pile up instead—the _Witch Weekly_ with its exclusive spread devoted to the Malfoys and Hermione; the _Daily Prophets_ eagerly covering Hermione’s new crusade to stop the Dementor’s Kiss; the _Quibbler_ with a crossword puzzle about Ron’s favorite colors. 

Thursday found her in the kitchen, putting in the finishing touches on a casserole. George and Angelina were coming for dinner in a half hour. Just as she was bending over to put it in the oven, a couple of pops sounded outside and the screen door opened. 

“In here!” She called merrily. But when she looked up, it was to see Percy, Ginny, and Harry striding in purposefully, faces set. Something in their eyes put her nerves on edge, and she drew back slightly, clutching her wooden spoon for support. 

“Hey, Mum,” said Ginny, crossing to give her a hug that was all business and no warmth. “Have you got a minute?” 

“Is everything okay?” Molly looked from one of their faces to the others, feeling a pang of worry. “Has something happened with the Department?” 

Percy shook his head, drew out a chair, and smacked a pile of brochures onto the table. “We need to talk about Fred.” 

“Fred?” Molly set down her spoon and cleaned her hands on her apron. “What about him?” 

“Can we go in the living room, Percy?” Ginny asked quietly. Molly noticed she looked haggard and worn. Percy nodded and cleared up his papers before shuffling into the living room. Baby ghost Fred was there in the corner, shredding the pile of newspapers about the Malfoy trial she had finally ceded to his control. They all took seats, Molly and Percy on the couch, Harry and Ginny on the loveseat. 

“Where’s Dad?” Percy looked about him. 

“He’s working on the campervan. He’ll probably be in in a minute,” said Molly, her breath starting to come more shallowly. “What’s the matter?” 

Percy looked warily from Ginny to Harry before speaking. “We’re concerned about Fred’s soul,” he said finally. 

“Why be?” Molly clutched the corner of a throw pillow. “He’s right there. He’s happy. He’s with us.” She nodded in the direction of the little ghost baby, who at the sound of his name had slunk into the corner, pressing himself against the couch. 

“Yes, but see, that’s the thing,” said Percy seriously. 

“Hello! Lovely surprise!” Arthur came barging in just then to Molly’s great relief, his yellow coveralls stained with grease from the campervan. “Are you lot joining us for dinner, then?” 

“No,” said Percy uneasily. “We needed to talk.” 

“Can I talk too?” Arthur said with a grin. “I’ll just be a moment; got to change.” 

“No, you haven’t,” said Molly quickly, zapping him with a cleansing spell. The grease siphoned itself away, leaving his coveralls fresh and laundered. Arthur looked down at the bright yellow fabric in some surprise. 

“Well, then,” he said, and took a seat in the open armchair to Molly’s right. 

“It’s probably best that you hear this too, Dad,” said Percy. “About Fred.” 

“What about him?” Arthur still looked light and smiley, but his grin was starting to fade. He too shot a nervous glance at baby ghost Fred, who was slowly vanishing backwards through the living room wall. 

“It’s his soul,” Ginny chimed in, drawing her knees up to her chin. “What’s gone wrong up there? Why is he back here?” 

“Because we miss him,” said Molly, a bit more snappishly than she had intended. “He doesn’t want to see us sad.” 

“Yes, well…” Ginny bit her lip. 

“Ginny’s been having nightmares,” Harry picked up for her, resting a hand gently on her knee. “About him being...well, about something being wrong.” 

“You’ve got to admit it’s abnormal,” said Percy, reaching across to hand brochures to Molly and Arthur. Molly took hers— _What To Expect When a Loved One Sticks Around,_ it said on crinkled green glossy paper, with a print of a blue ghost trying to hug a terrified woman. “I’ve looked through the Ministry records, scant as they are. Ghosts don’t change in age. They aren’t orange. You can’t touch them.” 

“Yes, and?” Arthur slapped the brochure down on his knee, staring at Percy in some disgust. “The Ministry hasn’t exactly got a comprehensive record of research on anyone but normal witches and wizards. Even the Muggle Excuses department hardly knows anything about Muggles. Why should they know everything on ghosts, especially when they haven’t updated their brochures since…” he peered at the date on the back, “1972?” 

Percy shrugged; Molly thought he looked a little defensive.

“It’s not just the Ministry,” Harry butted in. Molly found herself glaring at him—what did he know? The boy wasn’t even raised around ghosts. “The Hogwarts ghosts are all adults. I haven’t spent much time around ghosts myself, but Moaning Myrtle says it’s something you don’t even notice, you just sort of slide into it; and the same for Nearly Headless Nick. And I was talking to Draco, and he said—” 

“You told Draco about Fred?” Molly felt the hairs on her arms stand up, irate. “Why?” 

“I’m sorry,” said Harry, looking caught off guard. “I mean, I was just asking Hermione because she sort of knows everything, and I figured since he’s from an old Wizarding family and he’s got ghosts in his house—” 

“Harry, we’re from an old Wizarding family,” Arthur cut in, gesturing to himself and Molly. “It’s not a guarantee you’ll know anything. Ghosts aren’t much researched.” 

“He didn’t know much anyway,” muttered Harry, shrinking back into the couch and folding his arms over his chest. “He just said what Percy said.” 

Molly felt her face flashing hot. “What, so you’re telling just everyone now? How is George going to feel, when he finds out you told Draco and Hermione before he knew?” 

“You haven’t told George?” Ginny’s jaw dropped. “He’s his twin; how could you not—?” 

Molly looked to Arthur for help, shrinking a little. 

Arthur furrowed his brow and sighed heavily. “Because we were afraid you would take it like this,” he said, looking at Percy. “Like something to be solved. Because you would go looking for answers.” 

“But you’re going to tell George, aren’t you?” Ginny looked from Molly to Arthur. “You are going to tell him? He needs to know.” 

Arthur looked at Molly and frowned. “Are you happy you know?” He asked Ginny. 

_“Happy?”_ Ginny gasped, snorting disdainfully. “What’s happy got to do with it? I’m scared for him, yes. I’m having nightmares. I feel like everything’s being torn out of me, again. But it’s only right that I should know. How could you know he might be...not at rest, and just ignore it, and decide to lie to everyone and not even check if he’s doing okay? How could you both be that _selfish?”_

“It’s not selfish!” Molly snapped, clenching her fists. “I _know_ he’s okay. Where have you even got this idea he’s not at rest? I’ve raised seven children, and I’ve never seen a toddler this happy and content and—where are you even getting this?!” 

Ginny looked at Harry, asking him a question with her eyes. Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Well, er,” he said, “I’m the only person we know who’s sort of, er, died before.” 

Molly rolled her eyes and swore under her breath. Not this. 

“When I went...well…” said Harry, with some difficulty, glancing at her and Arthur. “The only baby ghost I’ve ever seen was...there.” 

“Was where?” Molly shot. 

“It was sort of...it was like King’s Cross Station, but you could board a train to go on. And I didn’t. And the only other soul who hadn’t was this sort of...red baby, all...very hurt, and helpless, and I was sort of repulsed by it. It couldn’t even get to the train.” 

“It was Voldemort’s Horcrux,” Ginny interrupted him. “A stunted soul. A cut off soul.” 

“You’re comparing Fred to Voldemort?!” Molly found herself practically standing. 

“No, no!” Ginny rose to match her, waving a hand to cut her off. Molly sat back down. “Not at all. But that’s the only place we’ve ever heard of an adult who became a child, that’s all. And I keep dreaming...I keep having this vivid, recurring nightmare that Fred’s at the station, and he’s split in two, and he can’t board the train until he puts himself back together again and becomes an adult.” 

“I see,” said Molly evenly. Her heart twinged at the image, but she thought it was just that—an image, not a vision of something real. 

“So let’s say you’re right and he hasn’t been able to go...on,” said Arthur with a wave of his hand, his brow still furrowed in distrust. “What does that mean we do? You can’t get rid of a ghost.” 

“Actually, you can,” said Percy, pulling out another brochure. 

“We’re not exorcising your brother,” Arthur cut in. 

“No, no.” Percy pulled the brochure out and stared at it for a moment. “Audrey’s mother is a spiritualist witch. She helps ghosts move on. Gently. Helps them find the peace they’re lacking; whatever it is they didn’t do on earth, and helps them complete it.” 

“If he’s missing anything on earth it’s George,” said Molly with some exasperation. 

“Yes, but she says we need to make sure it’s a fulfillable desire,” said Percy, his voice that same grating, too-calm monotone. “What if George lives out the rest of his life, and he dies and goes on, but Fred is still stuck, here?” 

Molly fell back against the cushions. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t understand why you can’t just wait until then. Why have you got to speed him up if he’s looking for something? He clearly wants to be here.” She felt a little pinprick of jealousy at the back of her mind, like maybe Ginny was right and she was being selfish—she did want all her children around until she herself died, that was certain. 

“Audrey’s mother says all ghosts are stuck,” said Percy. “She wants to see him. She can help.” Arthur had a hand under his chin and was leaning forward; Molly thought he was listening too intently. She felt a rising anger toward Percy, and Audrey by extension, and Audrey’s interfering mother. “We want her to come over and have a look.” 

The screen door slammed open then and George’s voice rang out merrily. “Honey, we’re home!” Angelina giggled. 

Molly looked at Percy, begging him with her eyes. “Don’t say anything,” she whispered, her heart pounding. “I’ll tell him. I promise. But let _me_ tell him.” 

Percy looked at her, judging her. 

“Hello?” George came around the corner, trailed by Angelina. He lit up in mock surprise. “You’re all so quiet in here! And so many of you!” He perched on the arm of Arthur’s chair; Angelina leaned on both hands on its back. “Say, is Ron here too by any chance? The strangest thing just happened today. We finally found out who’s been wrecking our storeroom, and it’s that subconscious projection of his!” He laughed out loud. “I need to have a few words with him.” 

Molly whipped around to face Percy, pleading; but he was already speaking. 

“That’s not Ron,” he said evenly. “It’s Fred’s ghost. Fred’s come back. He’s behind the couch.”


	25. Deuces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George finds out about baby ghost Fred.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters today!

Molly looked at Percy, begging him with her eyes. “Don’t say anything,” she whispered, her heart pounding. “I’ll tell him. I promise. But let me tell him.” 

Percy looked at her, judging her. 

“Hello?” George came around the corner, trailed by Angelina. He lit up in mock surprise. “You’re all so quiet in here! And so many of you!” He perched on the arm of Arthur’s chair; Angelina leaned on both hands on its back. “Say, is Ron here too by any chance? The strangest thing just happened today. We finally found out who’s been wrecking our storeroom, and it’s that subconscious projection of his!” He laughed out loud. “I need to have a few words with him.” 

Molly whipped around to face Percy, pleading; but he was already speaking. 

“That’s not Ron,” he said evenly. “It’s Fred’s ghost. Fred’s come back. He’s behind the couch.” 

_____________

“What?” The color drained at once from George’s face. Arthur quickly vacated the overstuffed armchair and let him collapse into it. “Fred?” 

Molly felt as if she’d been invisibly punched in the stomach. George looked warily around the room, until his eyes found baby ghost Fred. The ghost peered from behind the couch, flashing George a toothy grin, then at once shrieked, _“GEORGE!”_ and took off like a rocket into George’s arms. 

George yelped and leapt up, brushing him off. The baby landed on the floor, where he looked up at George with big, sad eyes and burst out crying. George took a seat without him, numbly, staring down at him in shock; Angelina put her arms around him from behind the chair in a tight embrace and he leaned his head against her arm. 

Unable to stand Fred’s pitiful tears, Molly crossed and scooped him into her arms. She could feel Percy’s eyes burning on her as she sat back on the couch, cradling the baby in her arms, stroking his little head to try and calm him. 

“Fred?” George said after a minute, his expression haunted, his eyes wide and far away. Angelina crawled into the armchair with him and held him tight; she peered at baby ghost Fred from across his chest. She looked similarly shocked, almost horrified. 

“Yes, well,” said Percy stiffly. “We’ve been arguing about what’s to be done with him.” 

“Done with him?” George repeated blankly. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, just…” 

“Take your time,” said Arthur gently. 

George looked at his father for a moment, and then his eyes began to blaze. “You knew?” His voice was taut. He glared at Harry—at Ginny—Percy—Molly. She gasped involuntarily; it was like his eyes burned a hole through to her soul. He shook his head. “It can’t be. I would know. I would know he was back. I would know.” He looked to Angelina, and it came out in a tiny whisper. “Wouldn’t I?” 

Angelina said nothing, just looked at Fred with big searching eyes. The baby ghost was still wailing inconsolably, shaking in Molly’s arms. “Why do you think this is Fred?” She asked, her voice measured.

Molly bit her lip and looked to Arthur, who looked back with a grimace. “It just is,” she said to Angelina, feeling her words fall flat. She looked down at the little pale orange shape in her arms. “He looks like he did as a baby. He’s got the same personality. He feels like him.” 

George shuddered. “He doesn’t feel like him.” 

Molly swallowed, but her throat felt dry. 

“Has he been here since…?” Angelina asked after a moment. 

“Not since the battle, no,” said Arthur. “Just since...September, was it?” 

“That’s about right,” said Molly, lowering her gaze to focus on Fred and not everyone else’s accusing stares. He was finally starting to quiet down, although he was still shuddering mightily every few seconds, his whole baby body quivering with dry sobs. 

“Why September?” Angelina sat up a little, still tangled up with George in the chair, her head resting against his shoulder. He was leaning on her, head against hers, like he’d had all the wind knocked out of him. “That’s quite a break, after...and why here? This isn’t Hogwarts.” 

“That’s what we were just saying!” Percy sprang forward eagerly, palms outstretched. “It’s so unusual! Ghosts aren’t babies, they don’t show up late, they show up where they died, and they aren’t orange.” 

“So he’s not normal.” Angelina nodded flatly. 

“Not at all.” Percy looked unusually animated. Molly bristled. “See, that’s why we think there might be something wrong.” Percy looked to Ginny, who had her knees tucked up under her chin, and to Harry, sitting awkwardly next to her. 

“Wrong?” Angelina raised an eyebrow. George was still staring into nothingness next to her. “Wrong how?” 

“He should be an adult,” said Ginny. “And George, I would have told you; it’s Mum and Dad who didn’t. I thought you knew already. I just needed some time; I didn’t check but I would have…” 

She trailed off. George gave a minute shake of his head. Whether that meant it didn’t matter or that he just didn’t need to hear it right now wasn’t clear; either way Molly felt rather thrown under the bus. 

“What does that mean?” Angelina ventured, after a long moment of silence where no one dared to say anything. “Why should he be an adult?” She peered at the baby. “And why isn’t he?” 

“We don’t know,” said Arthur finally. “But Ginny’s worried it means he’s split in two for some reason and he can’t move on.” 

George looked up sharply but said nothing. 

“So you’re not sure,” said Angelina. “You’re not sure he’s Fred, you’re not sure why he’s here, you’re not sure what’s going on.” 

Arthur nodded slowly, releasing a sharp breath. “That’s about the whole of it.” 

“Audrey’s mother can help,” said Percy, picking up his brochures again. “She helped her brother’s ghost be at rest. Audrey says it was beautiful. She’s helped other people at the Ministry, too.” 

George shook his head and spoke, finally. “He doesn’t feel like that. He feels like…” but he cut himself off, and stared into space again. 

“Like what?” Percy prompted him, but it was clear George didn’t intend to finish his sentence. 

Baby ghost Fred had ceased his crying now and was still and calm in Molly’s arms. He wriggled around to get a better view and poked his head over her wrist, baring his two sharp teeth and making a silly face at George. George almost smiled. 

“See?” Said Molly, to herself and George, gently rubbing the baby’s head. “He’s fine. He’s not in any sort of limbo; he just misses his brother. He was completely fine and happy until now.” 

“Molly…” Arthur started warningly. 

“But how?!” Percy threw down the brochures. “Where does it say that? How do you know? No ghosts are happy. The Hogwarts ghosts are content at best, and nothing more. He has got to move on. What about when we all die, and he’s stuck here alone? Don’t you want him to be at rest?” 

“He’s not going to stick around alone!” Molly cried out, but there was doubt creeping from the back of her mind now. She tried all the harder to squash it. “If he’s waiting for anything, he’s waiting for George! As soon as George is ready, he’ll go with him.” 

“I don’t want him here,” George burst out, his voice hoarse. Angelina shrank back slightly from the violence with which he said it. “I don’t even remember him at this age. Why couldn’t he come back and be my friend? It’s not even like having the same person around. I couldn’t even tell it was him!” He shivered, and buried his face in his palm like he might be about to break down. Angelina clutched him fiercely. 

Molly said nothing, stunned into silence. Baby ghost Fred felt cold in her hands. 

“You’re right,” said Arthur at last. Molly looked up at the note of finality in his voice. His face was set, determined. “We don’t know what’s going on, but it’s probably not good. We should see what Audrey’s mother can do.” 

Percy nodded proudly; Ginny deflated in relief and collapsed against the back of the couch. 

“Arthur, you can’t just—” Molly hissed, trying to catch his attention. This ought to be something they decided in private. He met her with a piercing gaze and shook his head. 

“They’re right, Molly,” he said, sounding almost defeated. “We can’t just keep him here.” 

Molly looked down at the tiny baby in her arms and bit her lip. Give him up? She couldn’t give him up. “He’s not stuck,” she said, an edge to her voice. She got to her feet, the baby still in her arms. “I can feel it. I know it. I don’t know why you lot can’t.” 

“Molly…” said Arthur dangerously. 

“He’s okay,” said Molly, tasting anger in her voice. “Listen to yourselves. If he were stuck, he’d be stuck at Hogwarts and he’d be older. He _wants_ to be here.” 

“Mum, you can’t do this!” Ginny burst out painfully. Molly looked at her; her eyes were pleading. “I know you miss him. We all miss him. But you can’t just keep him here if there’s a chance he’s not okay.” 

“He is okay!” Molly struggled to keep her voice even; a wavering sob almost made it through. 

“You don’t know that!” Ginny buried her cheek in the couch pillows. “You’re not an expert. We have to talk to someone who _knows,_ like Audrey’s mother.” 

“No one knows Fred better than me!” Molly said without thinking, then immediately found her gaze drawn to George. She had to get out, had to be gone before they reacted. “I mean…” 

George said nothing, gave no sign he had heard, but next to him Angelina was glaring daggers at Molly. 

“I’m sorry,” Molly whispered to George, her heart pounding. He still wasn’t looking at her; she didn’t think she could face him when he did. “I have to go.” Molly turned on her heel and her feet took her out of her living room to the hall by the door. 

“Go where?” Arthur called from the other room. 

“Anywhere!” Molly shoved on her wellies and stormed out into the night, pressing her lips against baby ghost Fred’s head. If she was careful holding him, her lips didn’t go through his icy form. “I’ll keep you safe,” she whispered, and kissed him. She could hear voices behind her; she Apparated without thinking of where she was going. She just had to get him away before they took him and made him disappear forever.


	26. The Resting Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly wrestles with what it might mean to let go.

Molly reappeared somewhere in the dark, but her arms were empty. She looked down and a sob escaped her—no icy little ghost baby. Fred must still be back with them, and they didn’t even want him; she couldn’t protect him, spirit him away. 

She sighed heavily; almost fell to her knees, distraught. She must not be able to Apparate with ghosts, not if he didn’t know where he was going and come himself. And how could he know where she was going, if she didn’t even know where she wanted to go herself? 

She looked around, wondering where she had wound up. There was a crumbling stone wall, wind whistling through the trees, an iron wrought gate...of course. Of course she had come here. 

She looked out over the rows of headstones as the clouds above parted; they looked ghostly in the moonlight. 

Molly picked her heels up and walked through the still-drying mud down the familiar winding path. There it was...a little stone, _Fred Weasley, April 1, 1978 - May 2, 1998._ She stopped above the grave, looking down, staring at it for a long moment. 

She felt nothing. 

Molly took a deep breath, but she felt warm inside despite the icy wind. She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting, what she had feared. Some sense of earth-shifting wrongness, perhaps; some feeling of Fred trapped below the earth calling out to be reunited with the lost part of his soul so he could move on. So she could let him move on. But there was nothing. It was quiet out here, and still, and peaceful, and Fred was in the grave but he was okay. 

She stood by the grave for a long time, shivering in just her jumper, looking down at the headstone, at the crumpled dirt, at the scattered grass seedlings just starting to push their way up. It had been almost two years now. Two years since the Battle; two years since Fred had collapsed in front of her, turning her worst fear into reality. 

Molly frowned and furrowed her brow. Two years and she was okay. 

It was the sort of revelation that knocks you off your feet; she took a seat on the damp ground, cross-legged and shivering. How could she be okay? Her baby had died, and violently; she was never supposed to be okay again. Happiness without him was sacrilege and laughter was a locked-up memory of a time gone by, but here she was and the suffering wasn’t tearing her apart anymore. 

It wasn’t even about the ghost baby. Molly squeezed her cheeks in her hands, slouching, peering at Fred’s gravestone. She loved the little ghost baby, but if he’d done anything it was to remind her of the living Fred. Why didn’t they talk about him anymore? Tell his jokes? Laugh at his memory? What kind of legacy was that for someone like Fred? They’d just...Even George and Angelina had gone grim. 

Tears pricked her eyes, but a smile poked at the edges of her mouth, an unhappy smile, a smile she didn’t understand. 

“I miss you,” she whispered to the headstone. The words made her whole body ache down through her heart. “We all miss you.” 

A tear finally started to make its way down her cheek as a gust of wind howled through the cemetery, poking through the holes of her sweater, laughing at her because it didn’t know she was warm inside and it thought it could freeze her heart. 

They had always talked about Fred when he was alive. Always talked about the children; whenever she didn’t know what to talk to Arthur about she would complain about the twins and he would just start laughing and make her realize it wasn’t a big deal. When she was hung up about them opening a joke shop, worried what it would do to their careers when they inevitably decided to get other jobs after, it was Arthur who laughed himself silly over a trick wand and showed her the Ministry orders for Shield Cloaks that had made the shop a viable career. When the twins were in detention for yet another prank at Hogwarts, it was Arthur who had made her picture Severus’ furious, constipated face when he saw what they had done to his classroom until she almost fell off the couch laughing. 

They had always talked about Fred until they didn’t; and then the baby ghost came and they did again. 

Molly hugged herself as the clouds opened once more, the pale light glinting off flecks of white in the granite headstone. The grave felt peaceful, calm, content; almost empty. He would be at rest beneath her, now. His body was almost one with the earth at this point, and that was okay; he was asleep, not resisting. Wherever he was, he was okay...and he was not a flayed baby stuck under a bench at King’s Cross Station. 

Molly Apparated back to the Burrow, eventually. When she arrived only Arthur was still there, sitting by a dying fire, brooding. He looked up when she came in, his eyes searching her face. He wouldn’t accuse her, but she felt the shame of the way she had stormed out and the way she had spoken to the others all the same and ducked her head. 

“We can’t send him away,” she said simply. 

Arthur shook his head heavily and looked back at the fire. “Molly…” 

“We can’t.” She sat next to him on the edge of the ottoman and put a hand on his knee, tried to get him to look at her. 

He kept staring into the fire instead. “Audrey’s mother will be here in two days and we’re going to help him move on.” 

“We never talk about Fred anymore. At least we talk about his ghost. If we send him away, no one’s going to talk about that, either.” Her voice was calm but it quivered with feeling. If they sent the ghost away they would all ache over their time with the ghost, but separately, never sharing, never commiserating, just like they did with Fred. 

Arthur sighed heavily. “He’s not here for us. We have to help him be at rest.” 

“He is at rest,” said Molly firmly, convinced, remembering how she had felt looking at the grave. 

“How?” Arthur turned to look at her, and there was so much pain in his eyes. She clasped his hand, but he didn’t hold hers back. 

“I know he is,” she whispered. “I can feel it. He’s not stuck; he’s different from a Hogwarts ghost; he’s not a frustrated ghost who needs something. I don’t think he’s even waiting for George.” 

Arthur laughed scornfully, which would have stung if she wasn’t still looking at the hurt in his eyes. “Molly, you’ve got to stop with this. You can’t just rely on a feeling.” 

Molly bit her lip. “Then I’ll get you proof. Somehow.” 

Arthur laughed; shook his head in disbelief. He stared back into the fire, its angry fading light reflected in his eyes. “You’ve got to accept this, Molly. I’ve never met a ghost that didn’t wish it was strong enough to move on.” 

They slept back to back that night, at opposite ends of the bed, a chasm between them but fire in both their hearts.


	27. Esoteric Energy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shunned by her family, Molly seeks out the company of the Lovegoods.

Molly didn’t know what sort of proof she needed or where to start. She had never been much of a researcher, and Arthur was right that there was not much written material about ghosts to look through anyway. She spent the morning writing a letter to _Dear Philomena_ in _Witch Weekly,_ who seemed to be the kind of eccentric-yet-grounded sort of person who might have answers, then sat at the table for a while with baby ghost Fred at her knees, clutching her head and trying to think. 

Arthur was angry at her. He’d taken his coffee alone that morning, glaring at her and moving to the living room with his paper as soon as she came in, then left for the rest of the morning on some unspecified errand. He was back now, banging through the cabinets as he sought to make his own lunch. Molly let him, coolly ignoring him as he made himself a sandwich—he didn’t need to know about the shepherd’s pie in the icebox. 

“Have we got any mustard?” He asked her at last, turning somewhat viciously. 

Molly rocked back in her seat and knitted her fingers together. “Talking again, now, are we?” 

“Never mind.” Arthur slammed the top piece of bread on his dry sandwich and went to eat it in the freezing garage. 

“Brgh,” said a little voice at her left. Baby ghost Fred was looking up at her seriously, having paused his latest attempts to drink milk by way of pouring bowls of it over his head so it would drip completely through him. 

“That’s right,” said Molly. A lump formed in her throat as she looked at him. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up…” She scooped him up and went to siphon up the milk he had spilled on the floor, but of course there was no trace of it on him; he wasn’t sticky and a bath would have no effect on him anyway. 

By mid afternoon Arthur was still angry, Ginny was refusing to answer the Floo, Andromeda was busy, and Molly was quite spent from having no non-babies to talk to. In her eagerness to find someone who wasn’t angry at her, she found herself sending a quick owl and then following her feet down the lane to the Lovegoods’. Luna was never angry at anyone; her testimony at the trial made it seem like she would even have tea with Lucius Malfoy if he asked nicely enough. 

It was cold out, but the sun was bright, and by the time Molly made it the mile or so out to where Luna and her father lived she was an odd mix of chilly and sweaty. Their house was nested below a little hillock. In years past they had lived in a sort of truncated castle tower, but that had been destroyed in the war. It looked like now they were in some sort of shack. It looked small, and wooden; sort of like pallets leaning together. Potted plants hung from hooks all around it and the roof sagged under a blanket of ivy. As Molly walked closer, she realized the entire thing was a painted tent. 

Luna was out back, tending a small garden with her father. She came out to greet Molly, pulling off her dragonskin gloves and wiping her forehead under her enormous pointed dragonskin hat. 

“Hello, Mrs. Weasley,” she said airily. “Have you come for tea?” 

“Yes, if you’re not too busy,” said Molly, peering past her toward Xenophilius. He was kneeling in the garden in front of a row of plants and seemed to be holding them into the ground. He was wearing a long dragonskin cape; he gave her a quick wave before going back to pushing the plants into the ground. Molly returned his wave and frowned. “What are you working on?” She asked, following Luna, who pushed open the wooden-looking tent flap and motioned her inside. 

“A mandrake garden,” said Luna, taking off her enormous hat so she could fit inside and stepping down after Molly into the tent. Molly blinked and looked around; the place was low, cramped, and very dim. “We’re planning to raise them for profit and give the proceeds to the war victims. Now, we haven’t got tea, but I can offer you hot milk with turmeric?” 

“That would be excellent, thank you,” said Molly, feeling a bit queasy. She looked around. Her eyes were starting to adjust, and she realized the place was not so much small as it was full. The tent shack was magically enlarged on the inside—she could see several rooms stretching beyond the kitchen—but there were large leafy pots clustering all around the floor and on the various surfaces. Luna was having to rearrange several of them to get to the kitchen cabinets. What wasn’t pots was books or backdated _Quibbler_ issues, and the only light was coming from about five clay lamps floating in different buckets of water in various corners of the room. 

“Father’s too busy for tea,” Luna called back over the plants and magazines while she began to concoct a drink in a small cauldron on the stove. “We’re trying to establish a self-sustaining colony, but the mandrakes are at that age where half of them are having a mid-life crisis and keep trying to wander off and find themselves.” 

“Ah,” said Molly, turning slowly in a circle to try and get a better view of the space, gingerly so as not to knock into anything. She wondered if the mandrakes’ emotional lives were going to translate into loud shrieking in the middle of the night. 

“Here you are,” said Luna, nodding at Molly to follow her. She picked her way through a cluster of potted plants to an ancient table that looked as though they might have salvaged it from a rubbish heap; the table was surrounded by mismatched chairs of various kinds. Luna gestured that Molly was to take an armchair, bright yellow and made of peeling vinyl, while she herself sank back into a foldable Muggle camp chair. She placed a chipped cup of steamed yellow foam in front of Molly and settled back into the camp chair. “So,” she said, folding her hands together. “How are things?” 

“Things are good, we’re doing well,” said Molly out of habit, taking a sip of the turmeric drink. It was surprisingly delicious, if a bit tangy. 

“You can be honest with me,” said Luna, sipping her own drink in such a way that she gave herself a milk mustache. 

“Honest?” Molly repeated, surprised. She hadn’t come here to confide in the young woman; she had come because all her other potential conversation partners were busy or furious with her and she needed to get away from Arthur for a bit. 

“You never come over the hill.” Luna wiped her upper lip with her hand and took another drink. “You haven’t been here since my seventh birthday party. What’s wrong?” 

“I did come by with a misdelivered package once,” said Molly defensively, feeling a pang of guilt. Luna nodded like that was a fair point. “How are you doing? I know things must have been difficult for you and your father since the war.” 

Luna shook her head. “Yes, they have, but really thanks to Ron’s band I’ve sort of got better friends now. I can’t complain; the war took a lot, but it’s given me more things I’d always dreamt of.” Molly wasn’t sure what to say to that, but Luna set down her cup and licked her lips. “But I’m curious about what you have to say. I’m sure there must be something strange going on if you’ve decided to come talk to me; people usually don’t unless there’s no one else who believes them.” 

“I suppose…” and with an apprehensive sigh, Molly decided what the hell and launched into the story of baby ghost Fred. Luna listened intently, staring at her drink the whole time and not at Molly, raising her eyebrows in reaction to various moments. When she was done Luna picked up her cup again. 

“So is that where the nervous energy came from,” she said, peering at Molly over the rim of the cup. 

“Nervous—I’m sorry?” Molly shifted her legs, confused. 

Luna shrugged, her loose ponytail shimmering in the light of the clay lamps. “Well, I knew it wasn’t Ron. If Ron summoned an unconscious child with Hermione, that child would have a more remorseful aura, don’t you think? Tragic energy has got a bit more of a sort of lemony tang to it, and this apparition is straight Orange Fanta. And the clincher was that Ron’s ball of tragic energy was still contained in his left elbow, so I knew the baby was something different.” 

Molly pitched forward involuntary, wide-eyed, barely holding back a _“What?”_

Luna was still talking. “Of course, that still left the question of where this particular bundle of energy came from. They aren’t usually sentient, or visible to most people.” She nodded meaningfully to Molly, who understood herself to be decidedly in the ‘most people’ classification. “It didn’t really occur to me it might be a type of ghost, though, because if you stop and commune with him for a moment you realize there’s not an entire person there to commune _with._ So that made identification a bit hard.” 

“Hold up, hold up,” said Molly, raising her palm. “Not an entire person?” There was a sick feeling in her stomach as she remembered Ginny’s stuck soul theory. 

“Oh, no.” Luna sucked down the last dregs of her drink. “See, everyone’s composed of multiple balls of energy. So identification was just about thinking through all the energies of all the people I’d ever met, and figuring out whose bit had gone missing. It’s just, I’ve met a lot of people, and that would be difficult to get right because it would take ages to sort through them all and try and match it. It was easier to just help Ron write songs about how he felt that he and Hermione won’t be having kids together.” 

“Are you saying it might not be Fred?” Molly furrowed her brow, feeling a gaping hollowness in her chest. 

“Not at all.” Luna shook her head. “If you say it’s Fred, it’s Fred. You knew that part of him, so you would remember that energy. I didn’t know Fred that well myself, so I might not recognize every one of his energies.” 

“But…” Molly was straining to keep track of everything Luna was saying, and was also intensely aware she was sitting in a mismatched hovel that belonged to the owners of the infamously incorrect _Quibbler._ “Are they right? Does he need to move on?” 

Luna shrugged. “That’s a very interesting question. I can’t say I know. I consider myself more of a researcher than a giver of advice.” 

“Ginny thinks his soul is stuck and can’t be at rest until he’s got all of him again,” Molly prompted her, her heart sinking ever lower. 

“Does she?” Luna stared off into space a moment. “That’s an interesting idea. I mean, what is a soul, anyway? I’ve never quite believed in the concept.” 

“Have the Hogwarts ghosts got them?” Molly cut in, trying to get some clarity out of what she was saying. 

“Oh, yes, they’re all very complete.” Luna tucked her legs under her so she was cross-legged atop the camp chair. “Complete, but dim. But see, Father and I argue about this all the time. Is a soul just a collection of the various energies, or can the energies exist separately from the soul?” 

Feeling overwhelmed and more dismayed by the minute, Molly eventually said her goodbyes and extricated herself from the tent, thanking Luna for her confusing contributions. She pondered things as she walked back along the lane to the Burrow.

Molly wasn’t sure what a soul was either, and she wasn’t convinced baby ghost Fred was incomplete—although that would explain why he wasn’t appearing as his twenty-year-old self. But by Luna’s definition, a soul as a collection of...Molly shuddered a bit; this was a bit much for her... _energies_ made more sense than the idea that a soul and an energy could be two separate things. 

Molly stopped in the road; turned back; turned back again. A rare Muggle station wagon roared by, whipping the ends of her shawls into a frenzy. There was a revelation coming, and she knew she didn’t like it. 

She took a deep breath and gave voice at last to the thought that had been eating at her all morning. If she, Molly, could sense that the ghost baby was Fred, and Arthur could sense that too, then maybe Ginny could sense that Fred needed help moving on? 

Molly had to admit she had no idea what the ghost baby wanted. She just thought he seemed happy, generally, and she thought he should be around forever—but thinking about it, she had to concede that she wasn’t getting that idea from an actual consideration of what Fred wanted. She had no idea what he wanted; no sense of it. 

She and Arthur had known who he was; George hadn’t known who he was but he had known what he could do. He’d spent all Christmas Day playing with the little ghost baby, helping him fly, helping him play pranks on the family. He had an excellent sense of the baby’s ideas and capabilities. Maybe Ginny, who knew neither of those, could sense what the baby needed?

Molly started walking again, her feet heavy against the asphalt. If that was what Ginny knew—and Molly knew she herself didn’t know any better—then who was she to say Ginny wasn’t right? 

She arrived back at the Burrow. Arthur was in the garage; she went past it without a word and walked into the living room. The house was empty; she could feel it. 

“Fred?” She called out quietly. There was nothing for a moment, and then the ghost baby popped into being from midair and floated down into her arms. 

“What do you want?” She asked the ghost baby, trying to open herself, trying to sense whatever it was Luna said was there to sense. He snuggled up against her, crossed his eyes, stuck his tongue out, and laughed out loud. Molly squeezed him, smiling, but inside she felt cold. She knew it was Fred, and she knew now—knew for sure—that she didn’t know anything beyond that. 

Molly did what she always did when she didn’t know what to do next, which was to go and take a long bath. She sat in the water for what must have been an hour, keeping it magically warm, laying back and letting the water sift through her hair. She didn’t know what she was going to do when she got out of the tub. She would have to do something about baby ghost Fred, and it was looking like that something was giving him up. But she didn’t have to until she got out….So Molly stayed in the tub for the rest of the afternoon, until Arthur burst in and got her.


	28. Cottage Comparisons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill and Fleur have Victoire. Being around a real baby makes Molly rethink baby ghost Fred.

“Fleur’s had the baby!” Arthur exclaimed, bursting through the bathroom door, his eyes shining and his daylong animosity forgotten. 

“What?” Molly sat up too quickly, sending water cascading over the edges of the tub. She summoned a towel and stood up, drying herself off. 

“Bill just Owled!” Arthur was bouncing on the balls of his feet. “It’s a girl, and we can come meet her as soon as we like. It’s a girl, Molly! Bill’s gone and had his own daughter! We’re grandparents now!” He seized her in a tight hug as soon as she got out of the tub, squeezing her joyfully. 

“A girl!” Molly’s own voice was giddy; she hugged him back. “Let’s go! Oh—oh, _finally—”_ Molly dodged into the room past Arthur and pulled on the outfit she had selected months ago for meeting the new baby. It was a purple dress for luck, brown boots for hard work, and a yellow shawl for style. She cranked up her wand with a hair-drying spell and handed it to Arthur, who gamely aimed the blasting air at her head while she got dressed. She pulled on the shell necklace Bill had made her when he was a child, then took her wand back from Arthur and seized his hand, fairly dragging him downstairs. 

“I’ve got the campervan all ready—” he said, stumbling over his own feet. 

 

“The van? We can’t take the van!” Molly was piling fruits and sandwiches into a hamper in case Bill hadn’t thought to stock up on food. “It’s an hour away by van. We’ve got to Apparate for sure.” 

“Brilliant,” said Arthur, clapping his hands together. “Have you got everything? What else do we need? Let me know and I’ll get it—” 

“It’s just the layette upstairs,” said Molly, summoning it. A basket shot down from Charlie’s old bedroom, full of the blankets, crocheted toys, and newborn-sized Weasley jumpers she had spent the last year knitting. She clutched the basket to her chest; Arthur took the food hamper. “Let’s go!” 

They hurried into the yard together, Arthur magically locking the door behind him. “Ready?” 

They turned on one beat and reappeared in a second on the little grassy knoll above Shell Cottage.

The gentle roar of the sea waves filled her ears, and Molly turned and grinned at Arthur. They stepped carefully around Dobby’s little grave and picked their way down the sandy hillside to the tiny cottage. 

Fleur’s sister Gabrielle was in the kitchen when they walked in. 

_“Salut!”_ She greeted them, a big smile lighting up her face. “Shhh, ze baby is sleeping…Oh, are these presents? Zat is very kind of you.” She took the food hamper from Arthur and set it on the kitchen table, then led the way up the stairs and into the little bedroom. 

Fleur was in the bed, propped up with dozens of pillows, holding a tiny swaddled bundle in her arms. She gave them an exhausted smile as they walked in. She was wearing a blue silk nightie, and every blond hair looked perfectly in place in her messy Gibson-girl bun. Molly felt almost jealous (she’d been a sobbing, snotty mess after every one of her children’s births), but instead of indulging in that thought she gave Fleur a big huge grin. 

“Mum! Dad!” Bill got up and came over; with his crumpled shirt and bedraggled locks he looked more of the picture of new parenthood Molly would have expected. He took Molly by the hand and led them both around the side of the bed to where they could see a tiny angelic face. He crawled back into bed next to his wife and newborn daughter and put his arm around Fleur, kissing her on the cheek. “I want you to meet Victoire.” 

“Oh, good,” Molly exclaimed. Everyone looked at her, including Fleur’s imposingly gorgeous mother from the other side of the bed. “I mean, I got the jumper with the V on it finished, but if she were a boy or you’d named her something else I’d have had a few more stitches left.” 

“A Weasley jumper?” Bill laughed and gently stroked Victoire’s cheek. She was so small that his hand completely dwarfed her head. “That’s brilliant. We’ll have to put her in that tomorrow.” 

“She’s beautiful,” said Arthur, leaning over to touch the end of the blanket where the baby’s toes were. 

“So beautiful,” Fleur whispered, kissing her daughter’s forehead. 

“You must be so tired,” said Molly empathetically. 

Fleur laughed and leaned back against the pillows, staring down at the baby. “I ’ave never felt so worn, but eet eez all worth eet.” 

_“Donne-moi le bébé, mon coeur,”_ said Fleur’s mother, scooping up Victoire in her arms and rocking her for a moment before placing her gently in a fancy white bassinet next to the bed. Bill and Fleur both languidly watched her go. 

Fleur’s father placed a hand on his wife’s shoulder and said something to Bill and Fleur in French about resting. 

“Yes, sleep while you can,” Arthur nodded in agreement. “She won’t let you for long. Come on, Molly, let’s give them a moment…” He took her hand and led her out the door, followed by Gabrielle and Fleur’s parents. Molly waved to the baby as she left. 

“She’s so beautiful,” Molly said to Arthur, eagerly clasping his arm as soon as they left. “A baby! A real grandbaby!” 

“I know!” He exclaimed happily. 

“We’ve got to have her over all the time.” 

 

“Absolutely.” 

* * *

Molly and Arthur stayed the rest of the evening and then quietly spent the night, sleeping unobtrusively together on an armchair while Fleur’s parents snored from the spare bedroom. If Arthur was still upset with her about baby ghost Fred, he seemed to have put it aside for the moment; Molly leaned gratefully against his warm body and tried not to think about it. She had gone into the bath with no plan, and she had come out with a lot of regret and still no plan. She was going to need a plan before she tried to argue with her husband again, or make up with him. 

Come morning Bill and Fleur brought the baby downstairs for the first time, Fleur leaning on Bill to get down the stairs. He took Victoire while Fleur sank into a chair and carried her to the window, quietly whispering to her as he showed her her first sea views. The baby yawned and grabbed a fistful of Bill’s long hair; he laughed and pried it out of her tiny hand. 

“You’ll finally have to cut your hair now,” Molly teased him, grinning from the other side of the room. 

“No way,” said Bill, shaking his hair back so it fell behind his shoulders. “I’ll just have to start wearing it up, like Fleur.” 

Fleur laughed, her face shining. “For once I agree with your mother. Maybe I should cut mine too, non? A leetle pixie cut ze baby cannot reach?” 

“No!” Bill exclaimed in exaggerated horror. “We are not practical people, Fleur. We are all about _style.”_

There was a light knock on the front door. “That’ll be Charlie,” said Bill. “We’re inviting everyone, but in groups, so the house doesn’t get too crowded.” 

“We can go home,” Arthur offered, starting to get up from his chair. 

“No, no,” said Bill. “Don’t worry about it. Gabrielle, would you mind getting the door?” 

Gabrielle nodded and passed into the kitchen, coming back leading Charlie, who was holding an enormous stuffed plush dragon. 

“Victoire!” He exclaimed, rushing forward to Bill. He handed Fleur the stuffed dragon; she put it on the ground. “May I hold her?” He looked anxiously at Bill, who looked to Fleur. 

Fleur nodded, so Bill carefully eased the baby into Charlie’s arms. Molly clutched her heart; it was so beautiful to see her grown sons holding the tiny baby so carefully. “Just look at them,” she whispered to Arthur, enraptured. “We’ve done such a good job.” 

“We have,” said Arthur, looking similarly pleased. 

“Wow,” said Charlie, gently rocking Victoire. “Good for you, Bill. Guess I’d better hurry things up.” 

“You seeing anyone?” Bill asked, brushing Victoire’s hand with his finger so that she grabbed it with her fist. Charlie looked up and gave his brother a rakish grin Molly wasn’t sure how to interpret. 

Fleur’s snowy owl flew through a window then, landing gracefully on the side table next to her. She unrolled a note from its leg. “Eet’s your bruzzer Percy,” she said after a moment. “ ’E would like to reschedule ’is chance to meet Victoire.” 

“Reschedule?” Bill rolled his eyes. “Yeah, he doesn’t get to be the godfather.” 

“Who does?” Molly leaned forward eagerly. 

“Charlie, of course.” Bill took Victoire back from his brother, who broke into a wide grin and clapped him on the back. “And Gabrielle is the godmother. I guess we’re skipping Percy and moving on to George, now.” 

Fleur nodded and crumpled up Percy’s note.

“Right, your five minutes are up,” said Bill, ushering Charlie out the door. “Back to Romania with you. Come back in two weeks if you want to help out.” 

“You can count on me!” said Charlie over his shoulder, keeping his eyes on Victoire. “She’ll be the most spoiled goddaughter in all the—” the screen door slammed shut behind him. 

“May I hold her? Please?” Molly asked when Bill returned. 

“Of course—” and Bill let the tiny baby down gently into Molly’s arms. 

She looked down at Victoire, who felt so small it was like she was almost weightless, but she was still more than twice the weight of baby ghost Fred. Molly held the little girl close. She opened her tiny mouth and yawned, then closed her eyes and turned to snuggle against Molly’s chest. 

Molly blinked back a tear. She had thought it would be nothing new to hold a baby again; she’d been holding her ghost baby every day for five months now. But this...this was very different. Victoire felt solid in her arms, and real, and there was something to what Luna had said: she felt whole. 

Molly gently brushed the back of her hand against Victoire’s downy hair; along her soft cheek. She was warm, and not icy; if you pressed against her, her body resisted. You couldn’t plunge through her like sticking your hand into an ice bath. Her heart was beating and she was a dozen different colors. Fred was a pale orange, but Victoire was that and light pink, with dashes of yellow, shadows of blue, wispy white hair….

Molly kissed the little girl on the forehead and let her grab her finger and try to put it in her mouth. She looked at the tiny, perfect fingers, already with formed fingernails. They would not be little for long. Victoire was going to grow and grow, and become a girl and then a woman, and one day she too would….

Molly shivered as the image of Fred’s headstone came back to her, unbidden. She knew what she had to do. She still didn’t like it, but she knew now what she had to do. 

The screen door swung open again and there were footsteps in the kitchen. George and Angelina burst in to greetings all around; George turned and saw Molly was the one holding Victoire and his face fell. She held out the baby to him. 

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered as he bent down to take the baby in his arms. “I’m so sorry for what I said. You’re right; we have to let him go and help him move on.” 

George didn’t reply; he took the baby from her wordlessly and carried her away, back over to the window. Angelina didn’t even look at Molly. 

She sat there, feeling terribly alone. George was laughing now; he and Bill were saying something, joking about how George would want to have a baby next, and Angelina was saying no, goodness no, how can you say that when we’re still so young…. 

Had she messed everything up? Probably. She’d gone and selfishly fooled herself into something, spoken words that hurt the people she cared about most. Now she wasn’t sure how to take them back. At least Audrey’s mother would be there in a few hours, and she would help put things right.

She felt Arthur’s eyes on her, and after a moment he leaned over to say something. “We have to tell Bill about Fred,” he whispered. “Charlie, too.” Molly nodded numbly, anticipation tightening in her chest.

There was never going to be a good time, what with Mrs. Prufroot coming that evening, so after Ginny and Harry and Ron had been by (Harry and Ron said hello to Molly and made some small talk, but Ginny didn’t), Arthur went over and tapped Bill gently on the arm to ask to speak privately with him. Bill seemed confused by the request, as did Fleur, but he followed Arthur into the kitchen. Molly went along as well, though she wasn’t sure if she was invited. 

“Bill, we’ve got something difficult to tell you,” said Arthur, remaining standing as Bill scraped a chair across the floor and sat down. “Remember the little baby George and Ron were playing with at Christmas, who they said was Ron’s projection?” 

Bill nodded. Arthur looked at Molly warily, so she cut him off. “It’s Fred. Fred’s ghost.” 

Arthur looked anxiously at Bill, who sighed heavily and rocked back on the back legs of the chair. 

“So?” Molly blurted out, finding the wait unbearable. “We think he needs help moving on, so we’re helping him, tonight. He might be stuck.” 

Arthur looked at Molly, questions on his lips, but she kept her eyes on Bill. Her heart was thudding, wondering if she was about to estrange another child. 

Bill let the chair come back to its resting position with a heavy thunk and knitted his fingers together, resting his chin on them, looking away from both his parents. “Fred,” he said finally. 

“Yes. But we’re helping him move on, in case he’s stuck,” said Molly hurriedly. 

Bill shook his head. “You know, Charlie said something was up. He said it might be a ghost. Fleur, too; she said Ron was being nonsensical. But we never said who.” 

“Did you recognize him?” Arthur gripped the chair in front of him. 

Bill nodded. “I remember Fred at that age. I guess I was sort of hoping it might be a great uncle come back, or something; George just seemed so happy.” 

“George was awfully happy.” Molly nodded furiously. “And you didn’t want to ruin that, right?” 

Bill looked off into the distance. “I probably should have said something to him. Does he know now?” 

Arthur leaned on the chair, causing it to scrape a little against the tiles. “Yeah. We had a bit of a scene at the Burrow the other night.” 

“So I guess it’s out in the open.” Bill rested his hands flat on the table for a moment, then looked up at them. “Stuck, eh?” 

“That’s what Ginny thinks,” said Molly, and she told him Ginny’s theory, stumbling over her words in her haste to redeem herself. Bill raised an eyebrow, seemingly in doubt, but waited for her to finish before he said anything. 

“That’s very interesting,” he said at last. “And Audrey’s mother is coming? Tonight?” 

“Yes,” said Molly, clasping her hands tightly together to try and slow down her pulse. 

“I’ll have to ask Fleur, of course,” said Bill. “I mean, it’s very bad timing. But I think she’ll understand.” He pressed his palms into the table, getting ready to stand up. “Any more time-sensitive family secrets I should be aware of?” 

Arthur shook his head, and Bill went back to help Fleur get Victoire ready for her nap. 

* * *

They left Shell Cottage after lunch and walked back up the hill to the Apparition spot, the long grass waving lazily in the breeze. Molly carefully picked her way across the sand, acutely aware of the silence between her and Arthur. 

“So, you’ve changed your mind,” he said finally, as they were rounding Dobby’s grave. 

Molly nodded. 

“Not going to change it again?” 

Molly shook her head, shame creeping up her neck. 

“Good.”


	29. Time to Let Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jenna Prufroot leads the Weasleys in a ritual to try and help Fred move on.

Molly told Arthur on the way home she had decided to let go, but he didn’t quite seem to believe her. They got in the house and baby ghost Fred cooed in greeting from the kitchen floor, but she couldn’t bring herself to engage with him just now. Instead, she left Arthur in the kitchen and went to their bedroom to change. 

It was an hour after noon now and she was still in her same clothes as yesterday. Audrey’s mother would be here tonight; the thought was heavy and overwhelming. If she wanted to spend more time with baby ghost Fred, this was her last chance. But after holding Victoire, after deciding to go for something real, she just didn’t quite find it in her that she wanted to…perhaps she would lie down for just a moment, and then she would want to go spend time with him before he was gone and she couldn’t. A comforting heaviness pushed on her eyelids and she closed them gratefully, stretching out across the quilt. 

Molly woke hours later to the sound of breathing next to her. The sun must be going down; there was no longer light outside the window and the air felt gentle. She reached out an arm; Arthur was there next to her, also sprawled across the top of the quilt. She draped her arm over him, but yelped and yanked it back when her fingers dipped into something icy on his other side.

Baby ghost Fred popped his little head up from the other side of Arthur, grinning. 

“Oh, you,” she groaned quietly, clutching a hand to her pounding head. At least maybe now she didn’t have to make an effort to go spend time with him, though by the look of the light outside his time must be almost up. 

Arthur stirred awake. 

“Sorry, love,” she whispered. “Go back to sleep.” 

He shook his head, turned to find baby ghost Fred. 

“I just found him here,” said Molly blearily, speaking up in her own defense. “I am ready. I just woke up and he was here.” 

Arthur shook his head and rolled onto his back, pulling baby ghost Fred into his arms, and turned until he was holding the baby between himself and Molly. 

“I don’t want to say goodbye either,” he whispered, clutching on to him as tightly as he could without going through him. 

Molly let out a choked sob and squeezed them both, and they stayed like that until darkness had fully fallen and evening was too far arrived to be denied. 

* * *

Ginny came first, trailed by Harry, warily eying Molly as she sloughed off her heavy traveling cloak. The silence hung heavy between them. Molly grimaced; it was something she would have to just spit out to break. She couldn’t leave these words unsaid, or they would hang between them forever. 

“I’ve changed my mind,” she said huskily. “You were right. I believe you. He needs to go on, and I was just too blind and selfish to see it.” She shivered, feeling open and undefended, but Ginny shocked her by running to her and throwing her arms around her in the tightest hug they had ever shared. No words needed to be said beyond that—she just clung to her daughter. 

When George came in, they were still hugging. She mouthed the words “I’m sorry” over Ginny’s shoulder, hoping he would react the same as Ginny had. 

He didn’t, of course; she had possibly hurt him more. But he watched them for a moment like he was judging her in his mind, and then a tiny smile lit up the corner of his mouth before he headed into the living room. 

Angelina just scowled at Molly on her way to follow George. That was unfortunate; she would have to find some way to make amends with the young woman. 

Ginny let go at last. “Thank you,” she whispered, putting her whole heart into the words. 

Molly touched her cheek, a lump in her throat. “I love you.” 

Ginny took Harry’s waiting hand and tugged him into the living room. 

Charlie came in moments later, fresh off a special portkey from Romania. He entered like he was in a dream, giving Molly a perfunctory hug while looking around all the while for baby ghost Fred. The baby came to him shyly, and he held him without saying anything, just keeping him in his arms and looking around. 

Percy and Audrey came in by the garden door, all the business, and that was where Bill originated as well, having left his wife and newborn daughter with her parents. 

Ron came in last and went straight for the kitchen, where he found Molly’s jar of biscuits. He picked up the whole thing and tucked it under one arm, shoving a biscuit right into his mouth. 

“Between you and me,” he said between bites, stopping by Molly in the entryway, “I don’t see why he needs to go. He really livens up the place. Very inspirational, too; I’ve already got three songs out of him.” 

“Perhaps you’ll get a fourth from helping set him free,” said Molly, resisting the urge to commiserate with her son. She was determined to do things right now, and that meant letting baby ghost Fred go. 

There were five minutes to go now. They gathered in the living room. Molly, Arthur, Charlie, Bill, Percy, Audrey, George, Angelina, Ron, Ginny, and Harry. Percy had told them to move the furniture, so they’d pushed it into the kitchen or against the wall. Now they were all sitting on the floor, not talking, just waiting. Baby ghost Fred was there; Charlie had a loose hold on him and every few minutes George would look at him from the side of his eye. 

There was a knock at the door. 

“I’ll get it,” said Molly, scrambling to her feet, but Percy and Audrey got up too and followed her. 

“Mum!” Audrey threw her arms around the woman at the door. She was a little taller than Audrey, and dressed in sleek black dress robes. Her hair was pulled back in a low bun and she had on tortoise shell glasses. 

She hugged Audrey back, then stuck out a manicured hand to Molly. “Jenna Prufroot. How do you do.” 

“Pleasure,” said Molly, who had been expecting more of a Luna Lovegood-type—mismatched shawls, vegetable earrings, crystals, perhaps; she was after all supposed to be a spiritualist witch. “Molly Weasley.” 

“So nice to finally meet you; my Audrey speaks very highly of you.” Jenna shook Molly’s hand, clasping it with both her own. “Now, is the rest of the family here?” 

“Yes, if you’ll come this way.” Percy led her into the living room, where she nodded approvingly at everyone sitting in a circle. 

“No need to get up,” said Jenna in a businesslike tone. She stepped over Ron and took a seat in the middle of the circle. Molly rejoined next to Ginny and baby ghost Fred; Ginny took her hand and squeezed it comfortingly. 

Jenna waved her wand and extinguished all the lights, then conjured up a dozen floating candles in a rainbow of colors. She opened her arms like she was getting ready to hug someone, and without being asked baby ghost Fred crawled out of Charlie’s lap and went to her. Molly reached out for a last touch as he went, her heart tightening in her chest. 

“Hello, Fred,” said Jenna gently, folding her arms around him. “How do you feel?” 

“Blrrrrhgle,” said Fred, curling up and resting his head on her knee. He closed his eyes. 

Jenna looked up around the circle, her eyes sharp. “George?” He sat up and her eyes landed on him. “George. Welcome, George.” She patted Fred’s back and he opened his eyes again. “George, please tell Fred how you feel.” 

“Er, okay,” said George, shifting uncomfortably. Angelina patted his knee supportively. “Well.” He cleared his throat, seeming a bit reticent under the eyes of everyone else in the room. “I miss you, Fred. I don’t feel like this is you but I guess it is. I hope you’re okay. I really wish I could talk to you and tell you about the shop and about Angelina and how much I love her. I guess I’ll miss how this baby thing keeps coming and messing up my storeroom, because he keeps hiding things and I feel like you _would_ do that. I miss you every day and I didn’t know how I could ever live without you, but I guess I am.” He fell against Angelina’s shoulder and went silent. 

“Thank you, George,” said Jenna, her gold rings glittering in the candlelight. “Your brother thanks you. The fact that you shared how you feel will help him move on.” Her eyes moved counterclockwise around the circle. “Angelina?” 

“I miss you too,” said Angelina. “I can feel you in the ghost baby. You feel like my friend, and I don’t want to see you go, but you have to. I want you to be whole and at peace more than anything.” 

Jenna thanked her as well, and Angelina bowed her head and held on to George. “Ron?” 

Ron looked around the circle. “I, er, I’m sort of mad because you being you ruins the basis for my hit song, _Subconscious Child._ But at least Hermione and I are friends again. I miss you, a lot, especially now working at the joke shop. I don’t think George’ll miss baby-you as much as he thinks because you really do make a mess of that storeroom. But, I dunno. Let go, little friend. Go fly away. Be free; just _find_ yourself, damn it. I’m going to shut up now.” 

Ginny laughed a little bit. Jenna thanked Ron, and then it was Ginny’s turn. She sobered up at once and thanked the baby for coming. “I know it helped Mum and Dad, even if it hurt me and George. Thank you for that, Fred. You tease people, but underneath you were always the most loving and caring person ever. This is a very you thing to do. You even hurt yourself to do it, and stayed behind. So, I just want you to know that you’re okay now. You can move on. You don’t have to worry about us anymore.” 

Molly swallowed, trying to suppress a sob. She patted Ginny’s hand and Ginny squeezed hers back and held onto it. 

“Molly?” Jenna turned to her, as she was next in the circle. Molly cleared her throat, getting ready for her heartfelt speech, but before she could say anything the witch pulled a parchment scroll out of her dragonskin purse. “Am I correct that this is from you?” 

Molly could only stare at the familiar handwriting appearing on the scroll as Jenna unrolled it. “You’re...you’re _Dear Philomena?”_ The memory of the long letter she had written begging for answers came back in a sickening wave. 

“Yes, thank you,” said Jenna. Molly stared at her, trying to reconcile the stylized silhouette of the _Witch Weekly_ advice giver with the woman sitting in front of her. “I was going to answer this yesterday, but then I realized it came from the same address as this. So I’ll just answer it now.” 

Molly felt her whole body burning red. She cringed, internally cursing herself for ever daring to expect anonymity from the Wizarding World’s most beloved agony aunt. 

“Dear _Torn Between Worlds,”_ said Jenna, reading nothing but speaking off the cuff and directly to Molly, “You must be hurting a lot. It’s a terrible thing to lose a child. It’s a terrible thing to lose anyone, and that’s why we have ghosts—sometimes the people we lose are just as afraid of being separated from us as we are of losing them. 

“When you lose a child, you might feel a lot of guilt. Your son’s death is not your fault. It wasn’t a lack of care or attention; it sounds like it was a hostile spell fired during the Battle of Hogwarts. I take it you fought in the Battle of Hogwarts as well. I would like to commend you on your bravery; every person you saved was someone else’s child. You spared others the pain that you are now feeling, and that is a priceless gift.

“You mentioned that you and your husband have been getting a lot of comfort from taking care of your son’s ghost as if he were a baby again, but you seem confused that your children don’t feel the same way. There’s nothing wrong with you, or them; it’s just that it’s different to lose a sibling than it is to lose a child. You feel guilty and anxious that you couldn’t prevent his death by taking better care of him—I would like to remind you again that this isn’t true. 

“His younger siblings probably don’t feel guilty so much as just a little bit lost. They’ve lost a protective force, someone they thought would watch over them always and help them care for their own children. They must be feeling intensely aware of their own mortality. If a ghost came back to comfort them, it would be an adult ghost, a friend ghost, big enough to protect and sentient enough to ask for advice. It doesn’t surprise me that having their big brother return as a small child who needs caring for would make their world more topsy-turvy, not be a source of comfort. 

“You and your husband feel guilty and at loose ends; you need to be caring for someone again. Might I suggest you fill that need with something else heroic, like helping care for those who lost their parents in the war? Your other children feel lost and upended. What they need from you is stability and strength. They need to see you be a true parent to this ghost baby by giving him what he needs.” Jenna rolled up her scroll and looked expectantly at Molly. 

Molly avoided her gaze, feeling called out. Jenna’s words were balmy, but she wished she could have read them on the pages of a magazine, not have her whole family hear how “guilty” she must feel. She locked eyes with Arthur, who was sitting on the other side of the circle, behind Jenna. He gave her a little nod. 

“Goodbye,” said Molly simply, looking at the little ghost baby. “Please be happy.” 

Jenna nodded in satisfaction and moved on to Charlie. 

Did she need to care for someone real? Molly kept pondering Jenna’s words as the others spoke their feelings to baby ghost Fred. The witch hadn’t addressed if she had been selfish, but perhaps that was because it was a question so obvious Molly had answered it herself just by asking it. Maybe a bit more selflessness could help. She could ask to watch Teddy more often, or help out with Victoire. She could even help the Lovegoods with their mandrake garden, or get involved in Harry’s Social Services Department. 

The circle was almost complete. Charlie and Bill voiced their reluctance to let the little ghost go; Arthur tried to model stability in a voice that was almost too calm as he wished him safe travels. Percy surprised everyone by breaking down in tears and needing to be wrapped up in Audrey’s arms. 

At last, the circle came back to George. 

“Well,” he said, looking at each of them in turn, “I hadn’t realized you all were so attached to this little guy.” He held out his arms and baby ghost Fred zoomed over for one final hug. “I’m sort of with Bill and Charlie here. I’m confused and I don’t totally like it, but part of me doesn’t want to see him go. But I want him to be whole and at peace more than pretty much anything,” he said, his voice straining with difficulty. 

Jenna nodded. “Let’s all close our eyes.” 

They obeyed, Molly sneaking one last look at the tiny pale orange form currently residing in George’s lap. Baby ghost Fred saw her looking and gave her a cheery wave and a wink. She closed her eyes heavily, locked them shut. 

“Now repeat after me. I love you. Farewell. You can go on. It’s okay. I’ll see you again. It’s okay. You can go on. Farewell. I love you.” 

Their voices swelled, a little out of sync, some people stumbling over words and others getting lost in their order. “I love you. Farewell. You can go on. It’s okay. I’ll see you again. It’s okay. You can go on. Farewell. I love you…” The repetition went on for a long while, until Molly was enclosed in a purple darkness behind her eyelids with only Ginny’s hand to steady her. 

At last, Jenna said they could stop. And when she opened her eyes, baby ghost Fred was gone. 

* * *

They fell over themselves to hug one another the way they had at the funeral. Jenna left quietly, though not before Molly caught a glimpse of Percy slipping her some money. She frowned, wringing her hands in her shawl; it felt off somehow to be paying someone over something so private. But Percy himself looked so bereft behind his set jaw…

She hugged each of them. George held her for a long time, before he whispered that he loved her and let her go. Then Angelina found her and held her tight. “I’m sorry,” she whispered tersely, like they were difficult words to say. 

“No, I am,” Molly whispered back. 

They all piled into the kitchen at last, where Ron passed around the jar of biscuits and Molly and Arthur fired up the stove with hot cocoa and tea. 

“It’s okay,” she whispered to him, looking around the room of their children laughing and crying together. “I really thought it wouldn’t be. But it’s okay.” 

He held her close and kissed the top of her head. “Of course it is.” 

The talking lasted past midnight. They shared stories of Fred, gave Bill unasked-for advice about baby care, talked about the Social Services Department and the Malfoy trial. They gossiped about the Lovegoods and the Malfoys and Jenna Prufroot’s unmasking as _Dear Philomena._

At a quarter to one Arthur laid a gentle hand on Molly’s and asked if she was ready for bed. She nodded, unable to stifle a yawn, and they made their way back to their room. Her heart was light, finally. Tomorrow the grief would hit, tomorrow it would be time to learn to really move on, but now she knew she had ten others to commiserate with. 

Molly pushed open the door and her heart stopped. 

The noise of her children still sounded in the kitchen below, but she couldn’t find her breath. She just stood there, weak, shivering, raising a shaking hand to point at the little being on the bed. 

“You…” 

“Me!” Baby ghost Fred shrieked happily, before knocking her nightstand to the floor.


	30. Torn Between Worlds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It turns out Jenna Prufroot doesn’t give refunds.

“He’s back,” Molly whispered, clutching Arthur’s hand and collapsing against the doorframe. “He’s still here, Arthur.” 

She looked up at her husband. The blood had drained completely out of his face. He made a quick decision; shoved her in the room and shut the door behind both of them. He held it shut with his body, breathing heavily. “We can’t tell anyone.” 

“That’s what got us in such trouble before!” 

Arthur shook his head. “We’ll have to let him go ourselves, quick. We’ve got to repeat the words.” 

They scurried to sit cross-legged on the floor, stumbling over Jenna’s sequence. “I love you. You can go on. It’s okay. Farewell…” 

Baby ghost Fred shot gleefully around the room, knocking over the nightstands, emptying dresser drawers on their heads, firing knick-knacks against the walls where they exploded into shards. Their chanting seemed to only fuel him, and finally Molly leapt to her feet, shaking laundry off her shoulders. 

“Stop it!” She shrieked. 

Baby ghost Fred came to a mid-air halt, holding a framed picture above his head, ready to smash it to the ground. 

“Molly…” Arthur cautioned, getting up from the ground. 

“I said, stop it!” Molly yelled. “Put that away!” The baby ghost put the framed picture back on the dresser, chastened. “What are you doing here?” She asked more quietly, her voice dipping to an aggravated hiss. “You’re supposed to be on! On, in the afterlife or whatever! They’re going to blame us!” 

Baby ghost Fred looked down at the floor, his big eyes sad. “Fweddy smash.” 

“Freddy no smash,” said Molly, advancing. “Freddy go be at peace with the rest of Freddy.” 

Baby ghost Fred shook his head. “Fweddy ’upposed to smash.” 

Molly cast a helpless look at Arthur. He shook his head. She could hear the sound of loud farewells and the screen door slamming repeatedly; the kids must be leaving downstairs now. 

“We go back to Jenna Prufroot,” Molly whispered, frozen in place. Arthur nodded. “First thing tomorrow.” 

* * *

Jenna Prufroot worked at the _Witch Weekly_ headquarters in Diagon Alley. It was a wonky, crooked building, comprised of the two stories above Madam Malkin’s. It was just after first light when they arrived, as they needed to be finished before Arthur started work, and Diagon Alley was practically deserted. Only the cafe workers were puttering about, and there were candles lit in the windows of the _Daily Prophet_ and _Witch Weekly_ as their reporters scrambled to make their deadlines. 

A few drunk wizards tottered about the street, and Molly stepped over someone she could have sworn bore a resemblance to Mundungus Fletcher on her way to the back alley stairway that led to _Witch Weekly._ They clambered up the stairway and paused in front of a bright pink door. 

“Ready?” Arthur whispered. 

Molly nodded, steeling herself. This had to work. She pushed open the door, a bell jangling merrily behind them. 

A dozen bleary eyes cast half-interested glances at them over empty coffee cups, then slid back to their Quick Quotes Quills. The air hung thick with cigar smoke. 

“Twelve minutes!” A voice shrieked from the back. There was a witch back there, cigar clenched between her teeth, overseeing the bent backs of the workers hastening to arrange type in the printing press. She saw them, raised an eyebrow so black it had to be drawn on, and strode their way, past the reporters muttering things about “in season” and “home remedies” to their quills. 

“Yes?” The witch asked when she stood before them, arms crossed, peering at them in a way that made even Arthur take a step back despite the fact that he towered over her. 

“Erm, we’re here to see Jenna Prufroot,” Molly managed. 

The witch blew out a cloud of smoke from the side of her mouth. “We’re eleven minutes to printing.” 

“Yes, and we’d like to see Jenna Prufroot. Er, _Dear Philomena._ It’s urgent.” 

The witch peered at them; cocked an eyebrow. “Complaint, eh?” 

“Sort of. Er, yes.” Molly looked to Arthur for support. 

“This way.” She spun, her heels clicking on the uneven, ink-stained floorboards. They followed her across the small loft where the reporters and type-setters were stationed and squeezed into a small hallway lined with offices on both sides. She rapped firmly on a lime green door. “Jenna? There’s some irate customers here to see you.” 

The door wrenched open and Jenna stuck her face out, her tortoise shell spectacles and generous green eyeshadow magnifying her hazel eyes. “Yes?” 

“Well, talk to them. Smooth it over,” said the other witch, taking a drag on her cigar. Jenna obediently gave the door a good yank; it must have been stuck because it came free with a scuff and a mighty pull. She looked the Weasleys up and down. “Come in,” she said, under pressure from the other witch, who appeared to be her boss and who was staring her down from her diminutive height. 

Molly and Arthur filed in through the narrow door. The office was not much bigger than a closet, but it had a good-sized window opposite the door overlooking a back alley. Everything in the room was pastel green or a creamy white, and there was quite a lot stuffed in the room. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Weasley,” said Jenna, her tone a little distasteful. “Sit down, please.” She gestured toward a green ruffled loveseat crammed along the wall. Molly gingerly lowered herself onto the thing, which seemed just long enough to serve as a therapist’s couch if desired. Jenna herself took a seat on a poufy pastel stool that served as a chair for her creamy desk. She knitted her fingers together and peered at them through her glasses, her tight bun pulling the skin on her cheeks taut. “What is the matter? If you’re anxious to see your letter published, I thought it was rather good material so I’m going to hoard it for my book next year. It will be worth the wait, I swear.” 

“What? No,” said Molly, her cheeks flaring in spite of herself. “You don’t need to publish it. Ever, really. I’d rather prefer it if you didn’t. The problem is…” she took a deep breath, “Fred’s still here. He appeared by the bed this morning.” 

Jenna raised a manicured eyebrow. “See, when you sent in the letter you effectively signed a disclaimer, giving me the right to edit and publish it as I see fit.” 

Molly blinked. “Did you hear what I said? Fred’s still here. You need to help us come get him to move on so he can be whole again.” 

Jenna laughed humorlessly. 

“What’s so funny?” Arthur shot. 

Jenna peered at him over the rims of her glasses. “It’s not my problem,” she said, her eyes piercing as she pulled open the desk drawer and rifled through it with her sharp nails. She paused, and there was a glint in her eyes. “I mean, it _can_ be, for another hundred galleons.” 

“Hundred... _galleons?”_ Molly gasped like a wet fish. 

Jenna nodded serenely and pulled a cough drop out of the desk. She unwrapped it and popped it in her mouth. “It’s a flat fee for the home visits.” 

Molly looked at Arthur, who looked as shocked as she did. She remembered the money she had seen change hands when Jenna was on her way out of the Burrow. Had she really made Percy take that out of his meager Ministry salary? 

“That’s a ridiculous sum,” Arthur bristled, tugging on his tie. 

“For a loved one to be finally at peace for the rest of time? Oh, I don’t think so.” Jenna shut the drawer. “Journalism doesn’t pay, darlings. I’ve had to branch out. So. Shall we turn this into a pre-visit consultation? That’s another twenty-five quid.” 

“No!” Molly’s face flushed with righteous indignation. “You’ve got to come fix him, and you’ve got to do it for free. It’s you who messed up. And if you don’t, we’ll—we’ll come out and say your methods don’t work!” 

“That’s right, we will!” Arthur seconded her, clenching his fists. 

Jenna looked at them a moment, then crossed her legs and summoned a Quick Quotes Quill to her with a snap of her fingers. 

“Can’t,” she said, pulling out a sheet of parchment and slamming it down on the desk. “I’ve already had an idea for a new chapter. _Coping when someone in the family keeps on clinging and sabotages the process._ Maybe, _Saboteurs?”_

“I’m not clinging,” Molly spat. 

Jenna raised an eyebrow. “My methods do work, you know. If he’s not going, it’s clearly because someone doesn’t want him to. My bet is on the woman who wrote me a whole long letter asking how to get out of having to let him go.” 

Molly clenched her jaw and tried to stop herself shaking. “You…” she spat. 

Jenna cocked her head to one side. “So, a consultation?” 

Arthur grabbed Molly by the arm and pulled her to her feet. “C’mon,” he muttered, pushing the door open. 

“I’ll get you for this!” Molly shook her fist at Jenna as Arthur dragged her out of the door. “You’re nothing but a low-down quack charlatan!” Jenna merely cocked her head to one side and smiled politely, so Molly added, _“And_ you’re ugly!” 

“Out, out, out,” Arthur muttered under his breath, dragging her past the reporters who all turned to look at her. He pushed open the pink door and they stumbled onto the alley staircase. Molly blinked in the bright morning sun, gasping. Arthur slammed the door behind him and hurried her down the rickety stairs. 

“You should’ve let me at her!” Molly burst out, jogging to keep up with his long strides as he started back toward the Leaky Cauldron. “I’d’ve got her sorted.” 

“ _‘And_ you’re ugly?’ ” Arthur imitated her. “Very mature. Oh, she was really about to help us for free after that one.” 

“What are we supposed to do now?” Molly looked back at the receding building, and dread began to build back up in her chest. 

Arthur shook his head, looking as scared as she felt. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s what she said at the beginning, and he’s too scared to go on himself. Maybe it’s his choice; it’s not necessarily us holding him here.” 

“I’m not holding him here.” Molly suddenly found herself in tears; she must have been teetering on an emotional edge for a while. Arthur stopped walking to fold her into his arms. “I’m not clinging,” she whispered, wiping her eyes harshly with the back of her hand. “Yes, I want him here. And I don’t want to let go, I really don’t! But I made an honest effort and I don’t know _what_ went wrong.” 

“I know,” Arthur whispered. “You tried your best.” 

“But they’re not going to see it like that,” Molly said, her voice shaking. “They’re going to see it like her. Because of the things I said before. They’re not going to believe me now.” 

Arthur rested his cheek against her head for a minute, considering. “Maybe we could go up to Hogwarts.” 

“Hogwarts?” Molly was so surprised she pulled back to look at him. “Why on earth would we go up to Hogwarts?” 

“For research,” said Arthur earnestly. “I know Percy and everyone keep saying there’s no research on ghosts, but that just can’t be accurate. It’s too deep a question for people not to care about it. One of the ghosts might be able to help us, and if McGonagall doesn’t know what’s going on she’ll know someone who does.” 

“And not Jenna,” said Molly, scrubbing her cheeks dry with the edge of her shawl. 

“Yeah, she hasn’t got knowledge; she’s got a business idea.” He patted her back gently. “Do you want to wait until the weekend and we can go up to Hogwarts together?” 

It was Monday, so Molly shook her head. “I’ll go now.” She knew if she gave herself much more time, her resolution would fade and she would never be able to let the little ghost baby go.


	31. The Restricted Section

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly goes to Hogwarts in search of answers.

It turned out Professor McGonagall did not know what was going on, or who to contact. She listened with a small frown, her hands folded primly on her desk, before telling Molly as much. 

“I’m afraid ghost lore is not well studied,” she said when Molly had finished. “It’s actually considered a realm of Dark Magic. Most of the study has been incidental insight gleaned from experiments focusing on necromancy. You are welcome to check the Restricted Section, but Dumbledore and I have both done our best to remove the more dangerous books when we came across them, after what happened when Lord Voldemort discovered an academic text on Horcruxes.” She shook her head sadly, looking down at her wrinkled hands. “Such a pity, that Hogwarts played a role in his rise.” 

Molly, her hopes draining out of her as painfully as water through a clogged-up drain, tried to keep her full disappointment off her face. “That’s all right. I guess Jenna Prufroot’s offer was too good to be true.” 

“Oh, that girl,” said McGonagall, and something like a laugh reached her lips. “Miss Miller, when I taught her. She was the most impatient Ravenclaw I’ve ever seen; she never had the patience to sort out the password and get into her own House at night. I was constantly having to pull her out of other house Common Rooms.” 

Molly laughed politely at the image, but her heart still felt like a rock. 

McGonagall looked at her tenderly. “Have a look in the Restricted Section. Or have a talk with one of the ghosts. There’s a chance you could find something.” 

Molly left McGonagall’s office and wandered down the spiral staircase, which turned behind her with a terrible grinding noise to hide itself once more behind the griffin statue. She tucked her arms to her chest and shivered. No answers. If McGonagall didn’t know, then who would? 

She started pattering aimlessly down the hallways, so familiar that they hurt. The students must be in class; the castle was quiet and deserted. She should go to the library, but she couldn’t bear it; she knew she was avoiding the spot in the Great Hall where her world had shattered and she found herself taking out-of-the-way passages to stay away from it. 

“Back to the old stomping grounds, Madam Poppet?” 

Molly looked up to see Peeves leering at her. “Shove off,” she muttered, and picked up the pace. The last thing she needed was teasing by Peeves; she was in a fragile enough emotional state already. 

“What’s the matter?” Peeves started to float along after her. “Lost your way? Aging poorly? Trying to recapture some of that childhood magic?” 

Molly crossed her arms, ducked her head, and quickened her steps, trying to ignore him. He was languidly blowing raspberries now. As long as he didn’t start to….he began to sing. 

_“Molly Prewett really blew it,”_ he bellowed giddily, turning a flip mid-air. _“Lost her way and never knew it. Got so old and wrinkled too, yes––”_

Molly ducked hastily to the left and slammed a heavy wooden door behind her. This garnered her about thirty seconds before Peeves popped through the wall, grinning. “Got your goat? Too close to home?” 

She tried to jog to outpace him. It was a feat she hadn’t attempted in years, and that showed as Peeves continued to float languidly alongside her, legs crossed like he was trying to meditate better insults. 

_“She’d age poorly, Peevesy knew it…”_

“Will you STOP!” She burst out at last, breaking her pace to gasp and clutch her sides, though in her heart she felt a twinge of gratitude for the distraction. 

“What, and not say hello to my favorite student now she’s in her pre-ghost years?” Peeves inflated like a bellow and took a deep breath before bursting into the song that had followed her all around the halls her Sixth and Seventh years. _“Arthur and Molly, won’t you please, stop your S-N-O-G-G-I-N-G––”_

It was an artless song, but it had deeply embarrassed her in front of several teachers and both her older brothers. It was just...it was just too much. Molly veered toward the side of the corridor; she felt her knees weakening and she slid against the wall to land on the floor and found herself laughing hysterically. 

Peeves paused his singing to swoop in curiously; apparently he wasn’t used to targets laughing at his jokes. 

“Something funny?” He seemed unsure whether to appear flattered or offended. 

Molly didn’t answer him, just shook her head weakly and continued to laugh uncontrollably. Oh, it was too much; it was all too much...

“PEEVES!” A deep voice bellowed just then, and a cold cloud swept through as the Bloody Baron charged up the corridor. Molly whipped about to look at him; the gray splotchy bloodstains that covered him shone eerily in the torchlight. “Leave the visitors alone!” 

“So sorry, Your Bloodiness,” Peeves, stammered, touching his hat to his toes in a scraping bow. “Peeves was just saying hello.” 

“You know damn well a hello requires neither song nor commentary. Away with you! Filthy pervert, stain on the name of ghosts…” 

Peeves zoomed away up the corridor just as the noise of students being released from classes filled the halls, and in moments they could hear the sounds of shrieking and cackling as he pelted them with ink bottles.

“Thank you,” said Molly to the Baron as she got up to her feet. 

He looked at her with some surprise, as if he had already forgotten she was there. “Blight on the school, that one is,” he said, his face contorting like there was a foul taste in his mouth. “Been trying to get rid of him for centuries, but he just can’t be banished.” The Bloody Baron turned to go, but Molly stopped him. 

“Wait,” she stammered, as he turned back to her with an eyebrow raised and she lost some of her nerve. His comment had reminded her of Fred. “Can I ask you something?” 

“Can you?” The Baron asked in a deep, quelling baritone.

“What makes a ghost want to move on? Or not be able to? Peeves, clearly––he won’t leave this place. Once someone is a ghost, can they even move on?” 

The Baron looked at her keenly. Molly felt her knees knocking together a little under her many layers. She had never noticed before the sharp ferocity of his eyes, or the intense bristle of his transparent mustache. “Some ghosts do,” the Baron said at last. “Peeves is less of a person than an uncontrolled maniacal bundle of energy that exists purely to wreak mischief upon the school. He has no reason to move on.” 

“But what about the ghost of a person?” Molly pressed, despite the damp feeling on her forehead. “Do you ever wish you could move on?” 

The Baron seemed to swell slightly at her impertinence. He looked her up and down; seemed to consider if she was even worth an answer. Perhaps it was her age or the look in her eyes that convinced him. “I stay for Helena Ravenclaw,” he said at last. “How can I be at peace unless she grants it? But Helena will never be at peace; she stays because she fears to go on.” 

“And are you happy with that?” Her voice cracked a little, almost broke. 

The Baron rose a few inches, sniffed, seemed almost to flush. “Happiness means nothing to those who stay behind. It is as foreign as the taste of food, as much a memory as the sensation of touch.” He melted suddenly; vanished in an instant, leaving Molly alone. 

It was like a black pit opened in the pit of her stomach. If ghosts became ghosts from fear, and ghosts could not know happiness...then not only must Fred be stuck here because he was afraid of something, but she was wrong about him being happy here with his family. 

Suddenly she didn’t care if she walked past the spot where he had died. A gray cloud seemed to envelop her, cover her, narrow her vision into a tunnel. She walked aimlessly along the halls, moving through students who stared at her curiously as if she were a ghost herself. The students trickled away and the halls were empty once more, and there she was: the corner where she had last seen Fred alive. Someone had cleaned it up and repaired the walls. She moved about, called his name softly, but there was no sign of his ghost. So she sat down right there, sat on her bum with her legs straight in front of her like a petulant toddler, willing herself to feel all the emotions and for the pain to stab her harder in her heart, because she must deserve for it to hurt more. 

Tears began to roll down her cheeks, and she cursed herself, cursed Jenna Prufroot, cursed the whole idea of ghosts and the afterlife and death. The tears were hot and they burned her whole face. 

“Er, Mrs. Weasley?” The voice wasn’t completely familiar, so she turned to see who was speaking. She was quite surprised to see Draco Malfoy, dressed very nicely and holding an armload of binders. He looked equally surprised to see her. 

“Hello,” she said simply. Draco Malfoy wasn’t important enough to get up for, but she did wipe her face roughly with her sleeves. 

“Are you...all right?” He asked, his eyes shifting uncomfortably like part of him wanted to leave. 

“What are you doing here?” She asked, ignoring his question. “Didn’t you graduate with Hermione?” 

“Social Services business,” he answered, shifting his binders awkwardly so he was holding them under his arm. “Harry wants to start a summer program at Hogwarts for students who would rather not go home. Slughorn might help bankroll it; he’s an old family friend.” 

“Of course he is,” Molly muttered, a little more reactively than she would have preferred. Draco came closer and started to bend down; she shooed him away. “Don’t, don’t. I’ll get up.” She crawled awkwardly to her feet and leaned against the wall. “That’s very nice, the camp.” 

“Yes, I rather think so,” said Draco, who still looked uncomfortable. “We were thinking we could give them Quidditch lessons. Or something. Ginny offered to teach.” 

“Has she?” The thought of Ginny, and how long it had been since they had had a good talk, felt like it just stabbed her harder. 

“Yes. Well.” He was still looking at her. “Can I ask why you’re here?” 

“No,” muttered Molly, rummaging through her pockets for a handkerchief and coming up empty. 

“Is it because you miss him?” 

Molly turned to look at him. “How do you…” 

“Harry told me. He said there was a ceremony, or something.” Draco looked at his feet, shuffling his shoes. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up—” 

Molly shook her head, blotting her eyes on the corner of her shawl. “No, no, I’m being unfair. I know Harry’s told you all about our baby ghost; you don’t need to deny it.” 

“It’s fascinating,” said Draco, seeming really engaged for the first time in the conversation. “I’ve never heard of anything like him.” 

“Haven’t you?” Molly looked up at him; there was an eager light to his eyes. “But you must have grown up around ghosts.” 

“Yes, the Manor’s full of them,” said Draco. “But he sounded very unique, and special.” 

“He is,” said Molly, and somehow speaking of Fred in the present tense brought up another cascade of tears and she buried her face in her shawl. When she surfaced for air, Draco gave her a single awkward pat on the shoulder that was probably intended to be comforting. “You don’t have to stay,” she sniffed. “It’s just, we were helping him go on, and then he didn’t go, and apparently it’s because I just can’t let go…” 

“He didn’t go?” Draco pulled his hand back. “When? After the ceremony?” 

Molly shook her head. “Jenna Prufroot said it’s me holding on to him.” She laughed hollowly. “I’m just being silly. Everyone’s telling me to just get on with it, and let go already.” 

“I don’t think you’re being silly,” said Draco quietly. 

“You’re just saying that,” said Molly, but she felt a little touched. “I’ve just got to find the right method, is all. That’s what everyone says. My husband, my children...if your Hermione were there, that’s what she’d say too.” 

“No,” said Draco. “If Hermione were here, she’d try to find answers in a book.” 

Molly slowly lifted her eyes to meet his, hope creeping back in. “You know, I was sort of on my way to the library. Only McGonagall told me they’d taken all the books about ghosts and necromancy out of the Restricted Section, so I don’t know how much help it would be.” 

Draco looked at her for a long moment. “Come back to the Manor with me,” he said finally, quietly, like he didn’t want anyone to overhear. 

“The––Malfoy Manor?” Molly’s eyebrows shot up her forehead. It was the last place on earth she wanted to go, after the Broomstick Renewal office at the Ministry or the crummy hospital where she’d given birth to Bill. 

“Yes,” said Draco, looking her up and down cagily. “I mean, I think so. If you want to.” 

“Why?” Molly tried not to sound insulted, but she had a feeling she was failing. “Why on earth?” 

“Because that’s where the books went,” said Draco. “When Dumbledore began to take them away. Father got them all.” 

Molly looked around her, although there was nothing to see but the Great Hall. She looked both ways, pictured Arthur’s face, pictured Ginny’s face, then thought of what awaited her at home––disappointment, an inability to delight in Fred’s adorable baby face, years of frustration, probably. 

“All right,” she said at last. “I’ll go. If it’s no trouble?” 

Draco shook his head. “Of course not. I mean, Father’s gone now, and my mother won’t mind…” They began to walk slowly towards the doors to the grounds. 

“Right,” said Molly, feeling as if she should say something about all that had been revealed in the trial. “So sorry, again, about everything involving your…” 

Draco shook his head and cut her off. “It’s better now. Don’t worry about it.” 

They crossed the grounds in an awkward silence until they reached the gates. 

“You know what it looks like, right?” Draco asked, adjusting his grip on the binders in preparation to Apparate. 

Molly shook her head; she had never been. 

“Very well,” said Draco, and before she could give voice to her growing apprehension his cold hand was gripping her forearm and he pulled her into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I’m slightly ashamed to admit it, but that Comic Sans trick floating around the internet truly does work wonders! Now, most of this story is brought to you by good old Times New Roman. But the Bloody Baron is courtesy of Comic Sans. Thanks, Comic Sans, and your magical ability to banish writer’s block.


	32. Into the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly finds help in the unlikeliest of places.

For a moment Molly thought they hadn’t gone anywhere, as she stumbled to regain her footing in front of another huge wrought-iron gate. Then she realized the design was not griffins but serpents, and Draco was holding out a hand and whispering something as they writhed and swung open with an ominous metallic grinding. 

He turned to look at her and gave her a small smile. “Welcome to our humble abode.” 

Malfoy Manor was anything but humble; it was also not visible from the front gate. Molly followed Draco wordlessly into a lane shaded on both sides by ancient trees that blocked out the afternoon sunlight. Gravel crunched under their feet as she struggled to keep up with his confident pace. 

The further she went, the more it felt like the whole mood of the day had changed. She couldn’t deny that the grounds were beautiful––beyond the forested edges of the driveway, she could see what looked like a croquet lawn to one side, and a lavish patio and fountain to another––but the close set leaves of the twisted beeches gave the lane a thick, twilight feel. 

“It’s just around the bend,” said Draco, and sure enough another hundred feet later the road turned and opened to circle around an aging stone fountain. Beyond this a burnished sandstone building rose to imposing heights, with three stories of latticed glass windows so old and thick they looked dingy culminating in four square towers. 

“My,” said Molly simply. 

Draco laughed. “It’s a bit old fashioned. And not particularly homey.” 

“I should say,” said Molly under her breath. They circled around the fountain, where a walled garden opened up to their right, each of its corners topped with an enormous stone spike. He led her through a heavy wooden door at the front of the house, which swung open to greet Draco like it had been expecting him. 

They stepped into a vast entrance hall, furnished with low embroidered benches and covered in paintings. Molly thought she recognized some of them from auction reports in the Society pages of the _Daily Prophet._

“The library is up this way,” said Draco, leading her up a curved staircase carpeted with an intricate green runner to the right. A house-elf emerged from the shadows, and Draco greeted her amicably. “Peesy! There you are. Will you let Mother know we have a visitor?” The house-elf nodded smartly and was gone with a crack of her fingers, saying nothing. 

“From the trial!” Molly said, recognizing her at once. 

Draco nodded. “Yes, Mother asked her to testify. Through here.” They had reached the top of the wide staircase, and he led her now away from what looked like the entrance to a grand, chandeliered parlor and left to a long gallery that seemed to cross the whole front side of the building. To their left, the sun shimmered through floor-to-ceiling windows, although the age and bubbling of the glass warped the view. The grassy grounds seemed to swell, as if the imposing hedges and forested borders were built on rolling hills that rocked gently up and down as they passed, and the village beyond grew closer and then further with each passing step. 

A low muttering began to rise into angry remarks and shocked utterances as the portraits to their right began to wake up. The wall was hung with generations of Malfoys, all following Molly with their eyes now as some raced from portrait to portrait to get a better look at her. 

“Blood traitor…”

“Heard she married a Muggle Lover, that one did…” 

“Is that what became of my great grandniece?” 

“Pah! The sight of her, clearly didn’t know what was good for her…” 

_“Muffliato,”_ whispered a small voice next to her. Molly turned to see Draco with his wand in his hand. He smiled apologetically. “You should have heard the ruckus they made when they found out my father went to Azkaban on our testimony. Night and day; we had to threaten to put them in storage to get them to shut it. Of course, the Black family gallery on the other side of the house is hardly better…” 

They had come now to the end of the gallery, which ended with a door to their right. Draco, however, moved to open the enormous portrait of some 8th-century Malfoy that hung on the wall in front of them. The man didn’t want to move; he, like all the other silenced portraits, was now shaking his fists and yelling mutely. Draco gave him a threatening glare and muttered _“Alohomora.”_ The portrait swung open, much to the protests of its inhabitant. “After you,” said Draco, bowing her in. 

Molly stepped into a small, square, light-filled room, in the center of which rose a stone spiral staircase. She gripped the edge of the wide hewn railing and climbed it. Draco followed her as soon as he had shut the door. He must have lifted the spell, or it came off as he left, for a cacophony of voices rose from the portrait hall behind them. 

“It’s just the one story,” said Draco, gesturing above her to where another large door branched off the stairway, although the staircase continued beyond that for at least another level. Molly pushed on the large, handleless door when she reached it, and it gave way at her touch. “Ah, here we are.” 

The door swung open to reveal a room that was at first so dark Molly blinked in confusion. Then Draco gave a wave of his arm and a thousand candles in nooks and alcoves came to light. 

Shelves stretched up into shadowy, cavernous reaches; free piles of books floated here and there of their own accord, re-shelving themselves. The door behind them swung shut to reveal an inoffensive portrait of the Yorkshire moors, empty save for a withered tree and a tail-thumping basshound. 

“Well, here we are,” said Draco, gesturing to the packed shelves that now surrounded them. Shafts of light poked through from the windows beyond, but the bookshelves were so large as to partially cover the windows. “The Black family library. Mother’s inheritance. Any branch of Dark Magic you need, you’ll find it here.” 

Molly shivered in spite of herself. Draco must have noticed, because the next second there was a fire roaring up in the king-sized fireplace against the left wall. She hugged her arms to herself in thanks, and craned her neck up to look at the dusty, dark books. “I’ve no idea where to start,” she admitted. 

Draco smiled. “Truthfully, neither have I. You said something about...necromancy, did you?” 

Molly nodded, hesitantly, and Draco ascended a ladder while she watched and pulled something down from a dark corner on the highest shelf. The section he went for seemed to be not just high but tucked into an alcove on the ceiling, and he had to give a sharp tug to get the books out before he was able to come back with three. 

“Hopefully this isn’t as disgusting as it feels,” Draco muttered with distaste, flicking a spider off the topmost spine. He plopped himself down on the rug by Molly and set the books on the floor, then looked about. “Wait, I’m sorry. There are chairs––” 

“No, no, this is fine.” Molly gingerly got down on the floor to join him. There was something childish about sitting on the floor, some level of innocence that felt comforting in the heavy air. She didn’t think she wanted to sit on one of the chairs, which looked hard backed and achingly tall. 

“Right,” said Draco, handing her one of the tomes and opening another. He flipped to the back past several grisly illustrations. “I’m just going to check the index for _Ghosts;_ I don’t particularly feel like learning the rest of this right now…” 

Molly followed suit, cracking open the spine of the crumbling book he had given her. There was some reticence to the pages themselves. They felt dirty beneath her fingers, and she found herself wishing she had a pair of gloves as she slid her fingertips beneath the edges of the pages, searching for the index. She snuck a glance at Draco, who had already found his mention and was intently flipping back through for the pages about ghosts, and wondered idly how much time he had spent in here as a child. It was hardly a friendly sort of room, but to a curious mind it might exert an irresistible pull, full as it was of forbidden knowledge. 

“Mine hasn’t got an index,” she concluded, flipping clear to the back cover. Draco raised an eyebrow. 

“I see; it looks like a very old one. Try this…” he tapped the spine with the tip of his wand. _“Indago_ ghosts.” 

The book smacked open and the pages whirred past, bits of them crumbling into the air and melting into dust. It settled on a particularly horrifying illustration; Molly reacted with an involuntary shriek. 

“Oh my,” said Draco, tapping the book again. _“Deinde.”_ The pages turned to something less offensive. “Necromancy might be...darker than you were looking for, come to think of it. I’m fairly certain this isn’t how you got back Fred.” 

“No.” Molly shook her head, straightening her shawl in a bid to regain her composure. “I only thought...well, McGonagall said most of the study on ghosts came from accidents in experiments about necromancy, is all.” 

“Yes, well, it looks like that’s because they were experimenting by torturing ghosts,” said Draco, before shutting his book. “Shall we try a different angle?” Molly nodded, and Draco closed his eyes and whispered a spell. Several books began to glow on the shelves behind him, which he then turned and summoned one by one. 

The door to the library slid open then, noiselessly––Molly noticed because of the long shaft of light that pierced along the darkened rug––and a tall, slender figure slipped in. 

“Ah, Mother,” said Draco, rising to greet her with a kiss on the cheek. 

“You’re back from Hogwarts already?” Narcissa Malfoy stepped into the firelight, where her eyes landed on Molly. “So this is our guest! Hello, Molly.” 

Molly struggled to her feet. “Nice to see you, Narcissa.” Narcissa nodded obligingly and greeted her with a limp handshake. Framed by the firelight, she looked exhausted; her face was rinsed and bare and her blonde locks hung damp about her face. She was clothed in a velvet dressing gown so thick and fringed it reminded Molly of a curtain set, but it must have been warm for she hugged it about herself now and perched gingerly on the edge of one of the stiff-backed chairs by the fire. 

Draco sat down again. “We’re researching something,” he said. “Mrs. Weasley was looking for it at Hogwarts, but it was one of the books that had been removed to here.” 

Narcissa nodded in a detached way. 

“How are you?” Molly couldn’t stop herself from asking. 

Narcissa peered at her from the shelter of her thick dressing gown. “Well enough,” she said at last. 

“It must be nice to have the house to yourself,” Molly added, thinking of Lucius Malfoy, whom she was very grateful was not about to come through the door. 

Narcissa just nodded and said nothing. 

Draco began to flip through the new set of books, so Molly joined him after a moment. The one she chose was full of runes, something she had never studied at Hogwarts, but Narcissa was idly keeping an eye on her so she scanned the illustrations with her eyes, trying to pretend she was taking in the text. As soon as she had nodded uselessly through the entire book, she pulled open the next one. 

_“Of Love and Its Remnants,”_ the title whispered in spidery writing. Well, this was a romantic saga; it wasn’t even true…

The door opened again and Peesy appeared balancing a large tray. 

“Thank you,” Narcissa murmured as the house-elf set it on the small table in front of her chair. “Would either of you care for tea?” 

There was a three-tiered stand of cut sandwiches squeezed alongside the tea set; Molly was rather hungry but she looked to Draco first. Luckily he was already closing his book and eyeing the tray. 

Molly murmured that she would, thank you, and Peesy poured each of them a cup, handing a saucer with tea, sandwich, and biscuit to Molly with a shy smile. 

Peesy vanished to leave them in peace and they ate in silence. There was something serene about the library, positioned in the middle of grounds so vast and quiet even the noise of Muggle traffic didn’t reach them, though there was something still heavy and uncomfortable about the air of the place. Draco finished his sandwich first and returned to his research, quietly instructing the pages to sort themselves as he scanned them for helpful information. 

“Are you finding anything?” Narcissa asked finally, after Molly had finished her tea and also resumed searching. 

“Oh, yes,” said Molly instinctively, wanting to please her hostess. 

“Not exactly.” Draco sighed in direct contradiction. “There’s sort of a lot here.” 

“What are you looking for?” Narcissa asked, setting her empty tea cup aside and lowering herself stiffly to join them on the ground. She picked up the book in front of her and ran a slender finger along its side. 

Draco cast a questioning glance at Molly. 

“Ghosts,” said Molly. 

“Ghosts?” Narcissa repeated, arching a thin eyebrow toward the heavens. 

Molly initially felt defensive, but moments ticked away and Narcissa said nothing. 

Draco said nothing either; he just ran his fingertips along the ancient illustrations and Narcissa traced the embossed gold title with hers and it seemed neither of them intended to press her for answers. 

“We’ve got a ghost,” she said compulsively. 

Both Malfoys stopped their browsing to look up at her, Narcissa with curiosity and Draco with mild interest that she was about to divulge her story. 

“Of Fred,” she said when another few seconds had passed and no one had asked her anything. “A baby ghost.” 

“A baby ghost?” Narcissa looked from Molly to Draco, murmuring the words as if she wasn’t sure she had heard them right. 

“About two years old,” said Molly. “But he’s Fred.” 

Narcissa tugged her robe closer about her, the firelight dancing on the backs of her pale hands. “Does he say anything?” She asked at last. 

“Well...sort of,” said Molly. “Baby things. Lots of...happy shrieking, or he’ll say our names, and his name. Last night he kept talking about smashing, saying ‘Freddy smash.’ “ 

“Freddy smash.” Narcissa turned the words over; they sounded stilted and foreign coming out of her mouth. 

“He’s a bit of a hellraiser,” said Molly, a fond smile creeping to her lips. 

Narcissa smiled dimly. “It sounds like he’s a happy little ghost.” 

“He is,” said Molly, feeling a sudden flood of warmth towards Narcissa. 

“But they’re trying to let him go,” said Draco quietly, inserting himself into the conversation. 

Narcissa frowned. “Why?” 

Molly struggled to find the words again for Ginny’s argument. “We’re worried he might be...stuck, between here and...after, like he can’t move on.” Narcissa frowned, but Molly wasn’t sure how to put an explanation together without referencing You Know Who, who felt eerily close in this library. He had probably spent hours in here—a mighty shiver took her. “We want to...free him.” 

Narcissa shook her head, not quite understanding. “Wouldn’t you want him around?” 

“Yes,” said Molly, with a pang. It felt odd to be confiding in these people, but at the same time good to speak in full and admit how she had been feeling. 

“Then why must you let him go?” 

Molly shook her head, wondering this herself. If Fred was happy, and if...she lowered her gaze to the ancient rug. “My other children are worried about him. They say we can’t make him stay.” 

Narcissa laughed lightly, a quiet, pealing sound. “I wouldn’t expect you could make him go.” 

Molly frowned. “How do you mean?” 

Narcissa shrugged. “Exorcism would be painful for a ghost, far more painful than staying.” 

“Oh, no, not exorcism!” Molly shook her head vigorously. “We’ve been trying to shower him with love, and show him we’re okay—help him let go gently.” 

Narcissa laughed again. “Wouldn’t love and acceptance and attention just make him want to stay more?” 

Molly paused, because there was a beautiful sensation shining into her heart now, a feeling of lightness displacing some of the dread she had been carrying everywhere. 

“It’s not just about letting him go, though,” Draco persisted after a moment. He paged through the book he had on his lap, brow furrowing. “It’s also that he’s a very unusual ghost. Potter says so.” 

Narcissa inclined her head slightly, indicating interest, and when Draco saw her he kept on. 

“He didn’t appear right away, did he?” He said, with a look at Molly to double check. She shook her head. “It took about a year. And he’s much younger now.” 

Narcissa folded her slender hands on her lap with interest. “How did he appear?” She asked Molly. “That is, if you don’t mind my asking.” 

Molly shook her head of course not, and recounted the day, months ago now, that she had first heard the noise of a small child crying in the twins’ old bedroom. “I went right through him when I tried to touch him,” she continued, “and that really upset him. He sort of...shuddered, like this—” she mimed an angry shaking— ”and then he got a little bit solid, and he’s stayed that way ever since.” 

“Solid?” Narcissa leaned forward, thoroughly engaged. “A solid ghost?” 

“Yes, is that…?” Molly looked at her questioningly. 

Narcissa shook her head. “I’ve never heard of a solid ghost.” Her voice had a shining, enthralled quality to it now. 

Molly shrugged, worried about Fred but also a little bit proud of her special ghost baby. 

“Have you seen him, Draco?” Narcissa looked to her son, who shook his head. 

“I’ve only heard about him from Potter and Ginny. Even Hermione hasn’t seen him.” He glanced over to Molly. “What does he look like? Apart from being a baby, I mean.” 

“Well, he’s the size of a small toddler,” said Molly, demonstrating with her hands. “He can fly, like any ghost. He’s got Fred’s face and freckles. He’s sort of a light orange.” 

“He’s orange?” Narcissa’s eyes grew wide. She sat back and gently closed the book she had had open in front of her. “He isn’t gray? You didn’t say he was orange.” 

Molly frowned. “Does it matter?” 

“It changes everything.” 

Molly and Draco both looked at her, equally at a loss. Narcissa folded her arms calmly into the thick sleeves of her dressing gown. She frowned at each of them, like it should be readily apparent. “He’s obviously a poltergeist.” 

“A poltergeist?” Molly blinked. She felt her head reeling a bit. The word tasted foreign and dirty. “Not like Peeves!” 

“Exactly like Peeves.” Narcissa nodded satisfactorily, then continued when it was clear the others were not going to say anything. “Does he throw things?” 

“Yes,” said Molly, unwillingly. 

“Make a lot of messes? Get up to mischief? Is he solid enough to touch?” 

“Yes...” 

“Then he’s a poltergeist.”

“It’s not...I’ve never heard of...poltergeists aren’t people.” Molly shook her head, a little offended anyone would say such a thing about her baby. 

“Of course they are,” said Narcissa. “Peeves was a person, once. Your great uncle of eleven generations, we think, actually,” she said, nodding to Draco. “From the maternal line. It isn’t all of him; it’s him the year he enchanted the stones to walk off each morning as the castle was being built, because he apparently couldn’t bear the thought of Hogwarts without a prankster and so after he died that particular part of him came back, gathering all the pent up mischievous energy of the new school and giving it indestructible shape by way of his old human form.” 

“How does that work?” Molly asked, wide-eyed and feeling a little repulsed. Having been on the receiving end of many of Peeves’ nastiest rhymes, she had never thought very highly of the poltergeist. 

“An unconscious act of the will. Same as any childhood magic, really.” Narcissa shrugged. “I’m not surprised it would happen to Fred. From what Draco told me over the years, it sounds like Fred was a very energetic young man who loved to make people laugh and play practical jokes.” 

“He was,” Molly whispered warmly. She looked up sharply at Narcissa, who was framed against the dancing flames in the majestic fireplace. “How do you know all this?” 

Narcissa frowned. “Haven’t you ever read _Hogwarts: A History?_ There’s a footnote in one of the appendices about him.” 

Molly shook her head. She had never bothered with the books that weren’t assigned in class, or indeed read half of the ones that were. Narcissa was looking at Draco now, and she looked disappointed. 

He shook his head, flushing slightly. “Not all the way through. It’s very long.” 

“A poltergeist,” Molly whispered. “A friendly little poltergeist.” 

“It would explain why you can’t make him go.” Narcissa reached up to the side table and poured herself another cup of tea. “They’re largely impossible to get rid of.” 

“Is he okay?” Molly asked, looking at her hands.

“He should be.” Narcissa blew softly across the surface of her tea. “Ghosts are souls, but poltergeists are memories, more impressions or strong emotions given a quasi-physical form. Your Fred will be complete elsewhere.” She took a sip and smiled. “Perhaps things just got too calm at your home, and he couldn’t stand it.” 

Molly smiled deeply. She could picture Fred, vibrant, nineteen, living; that a quiet Burrow would be an insult to his memory was exactly the sort of thing that might have come out of his mouth. 

“Wait,” said Draco, who was frowning. “So he isn’t a proper ghost?” 

“Not quite.” Narcissa took a sip of her tea. “You know how there are ghouls, who are more of a lingering emotion?” Draco nodded. “You can’t carry on a conversation with a ghoul; they’re an impression of misery. Well, a poltergeist is a lingering energy, neither an emotion nor a soul. But like a ghoul or a ghost, it too originates as a living person with a strong connection to a place.” 

Draco still looked a bit confused. 

“It’s somewhere around here,” said Narcissa, gesturing broadly at the library. “I have read about them before. It was a set your father traded for in the estate settlement of your great uncle.” 

Draco pulled his wand from his sleeve and said clearly, _“Accio indago_ poltergeist.”

There was no response for a moment, but then there was a noise of scuffling, like a book was sliding out from behind several others. Then five leatherbound volumes came zooming from behind the shelves. One hit Draco on the arm and the others scattered gracelessly across the floor. 

Draco opened one of the books, rubbing his arm. “Latin,” he remarked. He tapped his wand to the page and muttered a translation spell. He turned a couple of pages, then turned back, and his eyes got rather wide. “Well.” He turned the book so Molly could see. “Maybe that is what’s going on.” 

Molly looked at the yellowing page to see a diagram of some sort of gooey cloud being wrenched from the grave. Arrows pointed from it in every direction, indicating some sort of inherent pull to chaos. 

She skimmed over the introduction below. It talked about the energy and the rarity of it all and referenced a later chapter that apparently disproved the hypothesis that a poltergeist was a real soul. 

“So this is it, then,” she said at last. “He’s moved on. And he’s also come back.” 

“Yes.” Narcissa nodded, like the case was closed. “You can let your family know there’s no reason to worry.” 

Molly smiled, broadly; she felt a sort of weightlessness. But it lasted only a moment. “I’m not sure how to tell them,” she admitted. “I sort of made a scene the other night. And I don’t want any more theories; I want to be sure. I don’t want this to drag on any more.”

Narcissa nodded slowly. “I’m afraid I can’t leave.” Molly nodded, remembering that Narcissa was still under house arrest until her trial. “But Draco could go and help you explain.” She looked to Draco, who looked surprised but nodded. 

“I’m happy to help, of course,” he said. “But is it really going to be...best...coming from me?” 

Molly was starting to feel flustered again. “I don’t know,” she said. “But I...if you could at least help me explain to Arthur, I really think it would make a difference.” 

Draco bit his lip a moment and then nodded. “Of course. Yes. No problem.” 

“Wonderful!” Molly dropped her shoulders as a wave of relief washed over her. “Can you come now?”

“I don’t know,” he said, with a glance toward his pocket where a gold watch chain hung. “I’m supposed to be meeting Hermione for dinner in a bit, and I’m not sure how long this will take. I’d hate to rush things.” 

“Bring her!” Molly burst out without thinking. “I mean, not to interrupt your date. We just all like Hermione. No, no; that’s such an imposition; I’m sorry.” 

“Not at all,” said Draco. She noticed his eyes lit up a little. “I think she’d love it, actually. She misses your family. I can ask her?” 

“Thank you so much.” 

“It’s no trouble.”

Draco summoned writing paper and scrawled out a quick note, which Molly noticed he signed with a tiny heart. He stepped out of the room then to send it from the family owlery, leaving Molly alone with Narcissa. 

Narcissa said nothing; she was leaning back now, supporting herself with a slender arm, calmly watching the shadows the fire was making on the carpet.

Molly shifted uncomfortably; her foot had fallen asleep. She snuck a glance at Narcissa. She and Arthur were some sort of cousins, technically; not that they had ever met in any family capacity. She had never been able to see any sort of resemblance between her affable husband and the cold, uppity Blacks, and looking now at the aristocratic profile in front of her, dressed down though Narcissa was, she still could see no similarity. 

Narcissa noticed her looking at her after a moment and acknowledged her with a small smile. 

“You should take the books,” she said, gesturing to the tomes laid out in front of them. “They might help you. Draco can bring them back at some point.” 

“May I?” Molly leaned forward over the nearest of the books. “That would help Hermione a lot, I’m sure. Percy will want to see them too.” 

“Of course. Keep them as long as you need, there’s no rush.” Narcissa looked off into space, and it suddenly struck Molly how weak and bereft she looked, alone in this crumbling mansion with only house elves and the occasional visits from her son for company. Yet, for that there was some sense of peace with her, some delicate, fragile relief. Molly almost said something to comment on how lonely it must be in the Manor, but she bit her tongue at the last and restrained herself. It wasn’t her place. 

Draco returned then, and he had already received a reply. “She says she’ll come,” he said. “She’s very excited. She’s leaving work early. We’d best leave now, actually, if we want to beat her there.”

“Wonderful!” Molly scrambled to get up. Narcissa rose as well to bid them off. 

“I’ll be back in a few hours,” said Draco, giving his mother a kiss on the cheek. “Or tomorrow, if I wind up staying at Grimmauld Place.” 

“Take care,” said Narcissa. “Molly is taking the books with her.” 

“Oh, brilliant,” said Draco, levitating them into a floating stack with a wave of his wand. He turned to Molly. “Shall we depart?” 

Molly nodded and took her leave of Narcissa before following him back out of the Manor. Her heart began to beat faster and faster as they left the house and headed wordlessly back down the drive, until it was a frantic, nearly audible pitch. 

They stepped out of the gate and it slithered shut behind them. Draco turned and held out his hand with a smile. “You’ll have to show me where to go this time.” 

So Molly offered her arm, and he took it, and she Apparated the both of them, concentrating mightily on the image of her home.


	33. Almost There

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco and Hermione help Molly begin to explore her theory.

Molly and Draco had no sooner reappeared at the Burrow than a loud pop sounded next to them, bringing Hermione with it. 

“Draco! Mrs. Weasley!” She exclaimed, hugging Mrs. Weasley and giving Draco a kiss. She was flush with excitement. “So,” she said, clasping her hands, her voice moderated like she was trying to politely contain herself. “You’ve got...you need help with Fred?” 

“Yes,” said Draco, who went back to craning his neck to look up at the Burrow with some curiosity. “Did you build this?” He asked Molly. 

“Yes,” she said, the beginnings of a blush creeping onto her face. 

“That must have taken a lot of tricky levitation spells,” said Draco. The fascination in his voice stopped her blushing. “How did you make them long-lasting?”

“We consulted Dumbledore about the building and securing of Hogwarts,” said Molly, with a hint of pride. “And Arthur found a few books about magical construction.” 

“That is really neat,” said Hermione, though a bouncing of her knee betrayed her eagerness to get inside. “I hadn’t really thought about the use of magic as an actual construction material before.” 

“It’s more common than you might expect,” said Molly. “Most witches and wizards don’t build the Muggle way. It’s just too tempting to save time. Even Arthur didn’t consider it.” 

They entered the kitchen. Molly was surprised to see Arthur there, a half-empty bottle of butterbeer open next to him. He was supposed to be at work for an hour yet. 

Arthur looked up, more slowly than usual, and upon seeing the look in his eyes Molly went to him at once. He was sitting one one of the kitchen benches, legs spread out in front of him, staring forlornly at baby ghost Fred who was playing in the corner. Hermione and Draco both greeted him, her cheerily, Draco hesitantly, and he gave a languid wave in reply. 

Molly went to him, bent over, laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Are you all right, darling?” She murmured. 

Arthur shook his head. 

“Is it him?” 

He made no reply, but Molly knew him well enough that she didn’t need one. She hugged him. “We’ve got an idea what he is,” she said. “And he doesn’t have to go. He might be okay. They’re going to check.” 

Arthur creased his brow like he didn’t quite believe her, but just then Hermione and Draco discovered baby ghost Fred. 

“Aren’t you adorable!” Hermione exclaimed, rushing to her knees to greet the little ghost. He gave her a bright, mischievous smile. She reached out to shake his chubby little hand and he clasped one of her fingers in his fist. “So this is Fred?” She asked, turning back to Molly.

“Or an old part of him,” she said, nodding. “That’s what we were hoping to find out. How, exactly. And how much.” 

“Hello,” said Draco gravely, getting down on the floor next to Hermione. Baby ghost Fred turned and made a nasty face at him. Draco laughed. “I think he remembers me.” 

“Course he does,” said Hermione fondly. She smiled at the little ghost baby. “Do you remember me?” 

“ ’MIONE!” Fred shrieked. Hermione’s eyebrows flew up in surprise and she started laughing. “Wow, you _do!”_

“I suppose we can check that off,” said Draco. “He is Fred.” 

“Right,” said Hermione, moving to sit cross-legged on the kitchen tiles. Her face was shining. “Now, what was this about old forgotten books?” 

Draco grinned and waved his wand, bringing down the pile to rest gently beside her. He started to explain what Narcissa had said in a soft voice. Hermione nodded along; she was already flipping through the topmost volume. 

“A _poltergeist?”_ She echoed, her eyes popping, when he got to that part. 

Arthur’s eyes got wide, but he said nothing. 

Baby ghost Fred shrieked giddily, flew up off the ground, and popped a chuck of Hermione’s hair in his mouth. She shooed him away. 

 

“Scoot,” said Molly, pushing Arthur along the bench so she could sit on the end next to him. She looked him in his deep brown eyes; he blinked and tried to avoid her gaze. “What’s wrong?” 

“They’re coming back,” he said huskily, after a moment. “The kids. They think we’re lonely, without the baby.” 

“Fiddlesticks,” Molly whispered under her breath, sharply enough that to her it felt like a real swear word. “What time? Tonight?” 

Arthur nodded and reached for the butterbeer, taking a long chug. “A late dinner.” 

“Well, I haven’t cooked anything,” said Molly firmly. “And if I don’t then there’s no dinner.” 

“Audrey, Percy, Ginny, and Harry are all bringing dishes,” said Arthur forlornly. “They think you’re too depressed to cook.” 

“Damn,” said Molly, graduating to an actual swear word this time. “And we can’t keep him hidden.” 

Arthur shook his head. “He’ll want to say hello.” He took another swig, deep lines furrowing in his forehead. “What have you brought these two for?” 

Molly quickly explained what had happened at Hogwarts, and how she had come to spend the afternoon with Draco and Narcissa researching poltergeists in what was probably You Know Who’s old library. 

Arthur raised his eyebrows. “Impressive.” 

“So maybe they’ll prove it in time, and then we can explain to the children,” said Molly, hope rising inside her again.

Arthur grimaced like he didn’t share any of her confidence. “I’m not exactly looking forward to confronting Audrey with her mother’s refund policy.” 

Molly laughed in spite of herself. 

“It seems reasonable,” Hermione was saying then. 

Molly’s ears perked up. “Is he a poltergeist? Does that mean he can stay?” 

Draco and Hermione both looked over, and Draco flashed her a wan smile. 

“We think so, but let’s make completely sure. We’ve still got several books to go.” 

“Right,” said Molly, deflating a bit. “Do you need any help?” 

Draco cast around for a second. “Could you tell us what he was like when he was two? When he was this age in real life? So we can figure out when he came from?” 

“He was a menace,” said Molly instantly. Arthur laughed out loud behind her. “Him and George both.” 

“As soon as he could walk, he could run,” Arthur chimed in. “We had to take him to St. Mungo’s...twice? Three times?” 

“Four,” said Molly, who had each visit etched irrevocably in her memory. “He’d steal Percy’s toy broom, but he was too little for it and he’d crash into hutches, ram into the floor, hit the walls. He kept banging his little head on everything.” 

“And putting everything in his mouth,” Arthur added. “We were constantly trying to keep him from choking. He also ran out the toilet paper in the bathroom, and he’d empty all the drawers he could reach, and there was that time he sat on my wand.” 

Molly’s eyes got big. “That’s right, he did! I had almost forgotten that!” 

“I hadn’t,” Arthur said, grinning. “Snapped it right in two. I had to go show up at Ollivander’s for a new one like a First Year. We tried to repair it, but I couldn’t do without one for work.” 

“So he was very mischievous,” said Hermione. She and Draco had been listening eagerly. 

“Oh, definitely,” said Molly, who was on a roll. “He stole my wand once and started shooting sparks at Ron when he was a baby, and his and George’s childhood magic was basically uncontrollable. I mean, it only got worse.” Molly noticed a little upturned face in the corner, listening as it chewed on the corner of the carpet. “But he was also a little sweetheart. When he was asleep he looked like the most angelic little thing. And when he was a little older, he’d give me hugs all the time and even try to help out with chores.” 

“But you wouldn’t let him because everything always wound up messier after,” said Arthur, nudging her gently.

“Right,” said Molly. She looked at baby ghost Fred, who was still sitting placidly in the corner by Draco and Hermione. “It’s honestly been wonderful, having just him here. The first time around I was so busy with the house and the other children I didn’t have time to really enjoy him.” Her face fell. “And then we just got busier, and got sort of further apart, and I never got to be that close again.” She felt tears pricking her eyes. Arthur leaned in behind her and wrapped her in his arms, resting his chin on her shoulder. She leaned back into him gratefully. 

Hermione looked like she didn’t know what to say. 

They dove back into the books. Molly had never seen baby ghost Fred this quiet around other people. He had crawled over to Hermione and was resting his head against her leg, sleepily listening as she and Draco took turns reading aloud passages they found particularly illuminating. 

The sun slowly set, and eventually Molly and Arthur fetched one of the books for themselves and pored over it as they waited. Finally, it got close to seven, the time the children had said they would arrive. 

Draco closed the book in his lap. “They’ll be here any minute, won’t they?” 

Molly confirmed this. 

Draco looked to Hermione. “What do you think?” 

She blew a stray hair out of her face. “Nothing is a hundred percent certain.” 

“I’d say ninety-nine.”

“Yeah.” She patted baby ghost Fred gently on the head; he scowled and shoved her hand off. “I’d say I’m about ninety-nine percent sure this is our answer.”


	34. All Told

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly tells her family.

Percy and Audrey arrived first. He delivered her of her steaming casserole and gently took her sleek black coat to hang on one of the hooks by the door while Audrey, her hair as coiffed as ever, greeted Molly with a warm hug. 

“How are you feeling?” She asked. 

“Fine, thank you,” said Molly––it wasn’t a lie. “Why don’t you go on into the living room?” 

Hermione was at the far end of the living room, behind the loveseat, the stack of books piled next to her. Draco sat off to the left. Percy frowned when he saw them, but he and Audrey greeted both cordially before taking a seat together on the loveseat. 

“It smells wonderful,” said Molly to Arthur, sniffing the casserole as she set it in the oven to stay warm. 

He nodded, not really listening but peering past her. “Do you think it was a bad idea to ask Hermione and Draco to stay?” 

Molly shrugged, and her voice sounded less concerned than she felt. “The kids won’t mind for long.” 

Charlie came next. “I should just stay the week at this rate,” he said as he gave Molly a strong hug. “I’m on a first-name basis with the Romanian Portkey Office now.” 

Molly gasped. “You should! Stay as long as you like; I’ll fix up your old room and––” 

Charlie grinned and shrugged her off. “I just wanted to check on you; make sure you two are getting on okay.” 

Molly’s heart about broke when George and Angelina arrived next, tumbling in through the Floo Network. George looked empty and lost, and Angelina not much better; she engulfed them both in hugs but it didn’t really seem to help. The corners of George’s mouth turned down when he saw Draco. 

“What’s he doing here?” He asked Molly. 

“I ran into him today,” said Molly vaguely. “We invited him and Hermione over before we realized you all were coming.” 

George shrugged and went over to the couch, leaning over it to shake Draco’s hand. 

“Oi, mate. Hope you’re not here to give anyone a hard time.” 

Harry and Ginny stumbled in with their brooms, windswept and clutching a large cardboard box with bright designs on it. Arthur’s eyes lit up when he saw it. 

“Sorry we’re late,” said Ginny breathlessly. “We tried to bake something, but we failed dreadfully and it turned into sort of this hideous rock of burnt charcoal, so we gave up and went for a Muggle pizah instead.” 

“Pizza,” Harry corrected her. 

“Right,” said Ginny, setting the box in front of Arthur, who examined it eagerly. “Harry says it’s good.” 

Bill came last, apparating in the front yard in his beat-up gray duster. He didn’t seem in the best of moods. 

“How’s the baby?” Molly asked as soon as he came in. 

Bill shook his head. “Beautiful; beautiful as ever. Won’t sleep though. Fleur wants me back as soon as possible, so I’m afraid I can’t stay long.” 

“Well, thank you for coming,” said Molly. 

Bill went into the living room, and now that everyone was gathered Arthur and Molly went in too. 

Ginny looked up brightly. “I hope you’re feeling all right,” she said. “It was a brave thing you did, Mum. With the ghost. And we just all wanted to tell you––” 

It sounded like the beginning of a speech. Molly shook her head numbly to cut her off, her mouth dry. She went to stand in the middle of the room, her knees trembling. As soon as she was there, she wondered why she had decided to stand. It just made her feel on the spot; made it easier for all eyes to be on her. She looked for help to Arthur, who nodded lovingly, and to Hermione, who gave her an encouraging little smile. Molly swallowed to try and make her mouth less sandy and then she began. 

“Thank you for helping us let Fred go,” she started, figuring she might as well jump right into it. “Showing him our love. Helping him onward. Unfortunately…” she made the mistake of looking at Audrey, whose perfect brows were knit in an expression of deep concern… “He wasn’t a ghost.” 

“What?” George said. Angelina murmured something; Ginny clenched the arm of the sofa, looking somewhere between frightened and angry. 

“He didn’t go away,” said Molly, lifting her voice above the rising swell. “So we went back to Jenna Prufroot, and we went up to Hogwarts, and we did a lot of research, and we found out he’s not a ghost, he’s a poltergeist. We can’t get rid of him.” 

Ron leapt to his feet; Molly flinched. Harry was clinging to Ginny’s wrist as she looked back at him, her face blank; but it was George who really arrested her. His face was shining, innocently; it seemed like there was light back in his eyes. Angelina looked like she might be about to shout, but then she glanced at George’s face and sat back, wrapping herself tightly around his arm for comfort. 

“How?” It took Molly a moment to locate the angry voice before she saw it came from Bill. His face was flushed and his voice was hard. “How can’t he be a ghost? We were all here. We all saw him disappear. How didn’t that work? Did you summon him back?” 

“We didn’t summon anything,” said Arthur, stepping forward into the light to back Molly up. “Your mother and I found him in our room when we went to bed that night. She was distraught; we didn’t try to keep him at all. We tried the ritual again and again and when it didn’t work we tried to find something that did.” 

“How didn’t it work?” Percy burst out, his face a map of frustration. “Bill’s right, we all saw him go. We all knew he was a ghost.” 

Molly glanced to Draco, who was perched in a dark corner behind the couch, technically in the hall and not the living room. He looked stressed. 

“I guess we didn’t know a lot about ghosts,” said Arthur, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. “There are lots of types, and we didn’t consider them. There are proper ghosts, but then there are also ghouls, and poltergeists. It’s about...energy, was it?” He too looked to Draco, casting for an explanation; Draco nodded nervously. 

“Wait,” said Molly, it all rushing back to her. “That’s what Luna said! Ages ago, about how everyone still thought he was part of Ron. She could sense he was a different person but she said he was only _part_ of a person.” 

_“Part_ of a person?” Ginny’s tearful voice made it sound like part of a brother might be worse than a whole, trapped brother. 

“This is all coming from Loony Lovegood?” Bill cut over her with a hollow laugh, looking around the room for agreement. 

“Leave her be, she’s got some good ideas,” said Ron, who was still standing, his fists clenched. 

“It’s not just from Luna.” Hermione hadn’t spoken yet, and when her clear voice rang out the others fell silent to look at her. She had the five aging tomes clutched on her lap, resting her hands on the topmost volume, and she began pass these out now, handing the first over the back of the loveseat to Percy, who was closest to her. She levitated another to George, who clutched it and looked down with a faraway expression like he was in a dream, and the others she sent over to Bill, Ginny, and Charlie. 

Percy opened his first; Audrey leaned over his shoulder to have a look and Ron leaned over hers. Percy frowned; flipped back to the front cover; turned all the way to the back. “Where did this come from?” 

“Dumbledore had it removed from the Restricted Section of the Hogwarts Library,” said Hermione. “It’s just an innocent book about poltergeists, but he took out all of the books on ghosts because some of them involve necromancy.” 

“I don’t get it,” said Ginny, running her hand over the illustrations as Harry read along beside her. She looked up at Molly. “It’s just a lot of charts. How does this explain Fred? Are you saying he’s like Peeves?” 

“Yes,” said Molly, although the comparison still made her feel a little queasy. “Peeves is part of a person who once lived.” She tried to explain the energy thing as best she could, but by the confused looks on her children’s faces she wasn’t doing a very good job. She looked to Draco with a silent plea. 

“It’s in _Hogwarts: A History,”_ said Draco, rising. Hermione’s face lit up at the mention of the book. Everyone turned at once to look at him; Bill’s face flashed into a scowl. “In a footnote. Peeves was a person, a prankster who interfered with the building of Hogwarts. Upon his death, that part of him stayed behind to give face to the spirit of chaos at Hogwarts and make sure it was never without mischief.” 

“So you’re saying this is just _part_ of Fred,” Angelina said slowly. “I presume when he was very little.” She looked to the others. “Bill, Charlie, Percy; did you recognize him?” They all nodded. “Ron, Ginny, Harry; you all didn’t?” They shook their heads. Angelina laid a gentle hand on George’s knee. “George, do you remember being two?” George, who had said nothing yet, shook his head, his lips pressed tightly together. 

“I guess we just don’t recognize him because we didn’t remember that part of his life,” said Angelina. “Okay. I can accept that.” 

“Where’s the rest of him?” Ginny still sounded desperate. “Is he trapped? Can he go on?” 

“He’s not a proper ghost,” Hermione piped up, “which means it isn’t his soul that’s here. It’s another part of him; a physical memory of his energy from a certain age. His soul is elsewhere.” 

“So he’s gone on,” said Harry, sinking back into the sofa cushions in a collapse of relief. Ginny fell back into him, resting her head on his chest and closing her eyes. 

“You can check,” said Hermione to Percy, who was still paging through the volume. “That’s what you’ll find in the book.” 

“How did you find out?” Audrey asked, looking right at Molly and Arthur. Her voice was the sharpest Molly had ever heard it, and she still looked unconvinced. “You said you thought he was a ghost all these months.” 

Molly glanced again at Draco, trying to remember the list Narcissa had counted off. “He’s orange and not gray; he’s solid enough to touch; he loves to push things over, wreck things, and tease people. I mean, have you noticed how the house has been so much messier ever since he showed up? He follows me around and won’t let anything stay clean!” 

“Or my storerooms,” said George, speaking for the first time. His face broke into a broad smile, and he shook his head. “He messes them up. He’s been back to my place too, actually. Since the ceremony. I didn’t see him, but the rooms were a wreck again and I thought I was going mad.” 

Bill frowned and set down his book. “Okay. So maybe, I guess. But where is he?” 

“Would you like to see him?” Molly asked, feeling the weight of the world hinge on his answer. 

“Yes,” said Bill firmly. Charlie and Harry nodded eagerly as well; Ginny, Percy, and Audrey piped up their affirmations. “Please,” said Ron, finally taking his seat. 

“I’ll go get him,” said Hermione, slipping away up the stairs. 

“We were playing hide-and-seek with him,” said Molly in response to the unspoken question writ large on several faces. 

A few seconds passed; they could hear Hermione’s footsteps upstairs. Then, there was a loud zooming noise and a screech and a “YEEEEE!!” and a little orange baby flew into the room at top speed, smashing into the light fixture and causing it to spin dangerously on the ceiling. 

“Fred!” Angelina exclaimed. The baby paused triumphantly in midair before launching himself at George, who caught him in the tightest hug. It lasted but a moment before baby ghost Fred freed himself and zoomed about the room, tangling Angelina’s hair, passing through Ron’s head in an icy cloud that made him exclaim in pain, solemnly shaking Audrey’s hand, tugging on Percy’s necktie, fastening his little arms around Charlie, and giving Bill a tiny punch on the shoulder. Then he shot himself at Draco like he was being launched out of a cannon and knocked him to the floor to a chorus of laughter from everyone, including Draco, who gave the little ghost a merry high-five as he got back up. Then he flew back over to George and George clenched him in a fierce embrace. Fred didn’t fly away this time, but curled up into a little ball and held him back. 

“Fred,” Ginny whispered, getting closer so she could delicately touch one corner of the little orange head. Ron came as well, and so did Charlie, and Bill, and Percy, until every one of them was gathered around the couch, gazing at the little ghost baby in wonder. George continued to hold him, his eyes squeezed shut. 

Molly caught Hermione’s eye; Hermione gave her the purest smile. Draco grinned happily at her as well, seeming touched as he crossed from his corner to where Hermione was. Molly looked around the happy room and smiled so wide her face felt stretched. 

“You’re crying,” said Arthur, shocked. He wrapped her in his arms as she wiped her eyes to find tears beginning to roll down her cheeks. “What’s the matter?” 

“Everything’s going to be okay,” Molly whispered. “Everything’s going to be okay.”


	35. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Weasleys and all their extended relatives are together again for Christmas morning.

-Seven Years Later- 

It was Christmas morning, and these days the Burrow was so full of family Arthur had had to magically expand the living room. Molly had just finished baking her third tray of Christmas biscuits (baby ghost Fred had taken to chucking them in the direction of the elder grandchildren, causing them to run out extra fast), which she now slid onto a colorful chipped platter and carried into the living room. 

“Biscuits!” Elara Malfoy screeched, making a beeline for the platter. Molly laughed and tried to pry the two-year-old off her leg; she was attempting to scramble up like it was a tree trunk to reach the plate. She caught her mother’s eye across the room; Hermione nodded to indicate it was fine so Molly lowered the plate so the little girl could seize a biscuit in each chubby fist. 

“What do you say?” she caught her, winking. 

Elara thought for a moment, her wispy blonde hair poofing around her face like a skewed halo. “YAY!” she said at last, before scampering off to hand a crumbling biscuit half to baby ghost Fred, who immediately lobbed it at Victoire’s head. 

By this point Molly was being swarmed by small children, momentarily distracted from their presents by the promise of additional sugar, so she set the platter down on the carpet for them to raid and went to the couch where Angelina was. Her eyes were full of laughter; Molly inquired what she was looking at. 

“Look,” she said, giggling. Molly followed her line of sight to see George crouched in the corner with his nephew and his son, helping James put his arms around his slightly older cousin to stay on the toy broom. Both little boys seemed nervous, their bare toes scraping on the carpet as the little broom bobbed slightly up and down, but now George was gesturing for baby ghost Fred to come and take the front seat on the broom. George counted down and then shoved the whole trio off. 

They zipped off through the living room at top speed––James shrieking with delight, little Fred clinging for dear life, and baby ghost Fred flying along at just the right speed to stay on the broom, cackling and whacking everyone’s knees with a little stuffed Beater bat. 

“Yikes!” Molly exclaimed when they sideswiped her legs, little Fred nearly falling off. 

George came back to reclaim his seat by his wife, laughing uncontrollably. “I’ve told them to get after Teddy,” he said, grinning and wiping his eyes with his sleeve. The older boy, his hair a festive red to match with the rest of the family, was in the middle of unwrapping some retrofitted Muggle contraption from Arthur when the two little boys and their ghost uncle crashed headlong into him, sending him keeling back on the carpet. 

“Oh...oh no…” said Ginny lazily from the couch, watching to see if James was hurt. He dusted himself off and carried off running, undamaged, hitching a ride on his Uncle Charlie’s shoulders on the way to open more presents. This was just as well, for Ginny was several months along with a sibling and was curled up on the couch with a fuzzy blanket and a Quidditch magazine, looking like she never wanted to move again. 

Molly grinned, letting go of the tension in her shoulders. The children were still all tumbling over one another––Elara had decided she wanted a turn on the broom and was trying to wrestle it from her cousin Fred––and she was on edge that one might get hurt, but they seemed to be shrugging it all off just fine. She sank back into the couch, gazing happily around. 

Fleur and Bill were dozing off in an armchair together while Charlie was starting to tell some story to George’s son Fred and James; baby ghost Fred had idly flown over and was now helping him act it out. Hermione’s parents were helping Arthur assemble the gift he had bought Teddy, and Hermione herself was sitting cross-legged on the carpet with her husband, keeping an eye on Elara. 

“And _this_ one is for you,” Draco was saying as he handed a shiny silver-wrapped package to his other daughter. Ophelia, four years old and dressed in prim plaid pajamas, tore it open and broke into a broad grin when she pulled out child-sized Slytherin Quidditch robes. 

“Like Daddy!” 

“Draco!” Hermione exclaimed, giving him a playful smack. “You have got to stop trying to influence her! She’s far too young to be sorted.” 

Draco grinned mischievously as he helped the little girl pull the robes over her bright green pajamas. “No, no, she’ll definitely carry on the family tradition.” 

Hermione rolled her eyes in Molly’s direction, begging for some sympathy, and Draco burst out laughing. “Not all of them. Elara’s a Gryffindor, I’m sure of it.” 

“Thank you!” Ophelia burbled happily, then zipped off to show her grandmother Narcissa, who complimented her new look in admiring tones. 

Hermione leaned her head on her husband’s shoulder and smiled when she noticed Molly looking at them. “I do try,” she said lightly. “They’re enjoying the Muggle preschool. He never learned his color theory.” She kissed Draco fondly on the cheek. 

“How are you liking the new jumper?” Molly asked Draco, who was wearing a handsome black version with his first initial in gold. 

“It’s lovely,” said Draco. “And I really appreciate it, but you don’t have to make me a new one every year, you know. They hold up perfectly fine and I’ve already got a drawerful––” 

“Nonsense,” said Molly, glowing. She had knitted up a storm that year to make sure everyone had a brand new Weasley jumper––even Narcissa had a tasteful dark blue version, and Hermione’s parents were happily engulfed in theirs––and she was already plotting out sizes for next year’s batch. The only ones without were Jenna Prufroot and her husband, because they could get Weasley jumpers when they stopped insisting Audrey and Percy and their daughter, little Molly Weasley, have Christmas at their place. 

“Hey Mum,” said Ron. Molly turned to see him holding his goddaughter in his arms; Elara was busy trying to wriggle free. “Have we got any milk? I think this one needs to sober up after all the biscuits she’s had.” 

Molly laughed. “That’s not how it works, Ronald.” But she led him into the kitchen and fixed up the little girl with a sippy cup full of milk. 

The garden door slammed behind her, which she was surprised to hear, having not realized anyone was outside. She looked to see Harry coming back in from somewhere, his hair windswept and even more tousled than usual. 

“Got it!” He exclaimed, punching the air victoriously. There was a shriek from the living room doorway––apparently Ginny had crawled out of her nest––and she rushed him, throwing her arms around him in a bushy ginger storm. 

“Got what?” Molly asked, leaning back against the counter and grinning with secondhand joy. 

“Social Services Summer Camp is set for life!” said Harry boisterously, shoving his hair back off his face. 

“We’re still working on the name,” said Ginny, taking a step back. “After all this time. But I swear. The rebranding is coming.” 

“It’s Ministry-funded now,” said Harry, grinning. 

“That’s brilliant!” Molly exclaimed. Harry and Ginny had been running the program out-of-pocket for several years now, and she knew he was concerned about its legacy. “With the endowment fund?” 

Harry grinned happily. “Just in time for our little Albus Severus. Wait until I tell Draco and Hermione––” he pushed off into the living room, leaving Ginny staring happily off into space. 

Molly rested her hands on the counter and adjusted her footing with the utmost delicacy. “Albus...Severus?” 

“Oh? Yes,” said Ginny, grinning. She gave her belly a genteel pat. “He’s a boy. Don’t tell anyone yet, though.” 

Molly raised her eyebrows. “And the name? Is it...final?” 

“Oh, yes,” said Ginny, her gold ring contorting into a small kitten, which curled up happily on her finger to give the baby a hug. “It’s very important to Harry. Something about bravery and mentorship.” 

“Mhm.” Molly summoned the now-empty biscuit platter into the kitchen, dunking it into the sink. 

“What?” Ginny frowned. “You liked Dumbledore as well as the rest of us.” 

“Of course,” said Molly, pursing her lips. “That’s very exciting you’re having another little boy. It’ll be great for James to have someone to play with.” 

“You don’t like it,” said Ginny, crossing her arms. 

“Of course I do,” said Molly, passive aggressively scrubbing the biscuit platter. 

“C’mon, don’t do this. Spit it out.” 

Molly held her tongue one more moment, then whipped about, wringing the wet dishrag in anguish. 

“It’s just, why can’t you get a turn at the naming process? Why not any of our family names? James Sirius––absolutely. Commendable! It’s a perfect name for a firstborn son. But why not, oh, I dunno; Arthur Hagrid? Bilius Ronald? Charlie Fred?” 

Ginny burst out laughing. “We’ve already got two little Freds in the family; we don’t need any more confusion.” 

“But Albus? Really?” Molly sighed, trying to be gentle. “Hadn’t the man got a hundred middle names? Why don’t you pick one of those? And why Severus Snape gets a child named after him, when your poor longsuffering father––” 

“Mum, I’m on board with this,” Ginny snapped. The little kitten on her ring finger hissed at Molly, who realized it was time to stop. She set down the dishrag. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, crossing to give her daughter a hug. “You know we’ll love him and stuff him to bursting with biscuits, whatever his name is. Or her,” she whispered, as soon as she was in proximity of the baby. “Little Molly 2, eh?” 

Ginny laughed and shoved her away. “In your dreams.” 

They rejoined the rest of the family in time to see Fleur try to vanish cookie crumbs off the carpet with what turned out to be a trick wand. She shrieked and cast the resulting rubber squeaky toy away, accidentally hitting James on the head. James scowled, picked it up, and lobbed it directly through his ghost uncle, who squealed with indignation and rushed him for a tickle fight. 

“That’s my cue,” said Ron, brushing past Molly with a kiss on the cheek on his way to shrug on his overcoat. “Don’t forget. You pick Celestina Warbeck over me, and I’m never coming back.” 

“Of course not, Ronald,” Molly simpered. Ron had landed a spot on the Wizarding Wireless Christmas teatime lineup playing unusually somber versions of Christmas classics with his band. He was something of a rock star these days now that they had gone on tour across Europe with the Weird Sisters, and now he spent his days answering fan mail, increasing percentages of which were coming in the form of hysterically excited Howlers. “You be good.” 

Teddy leapt to his feet. “Can I go with you? Please?” He wrung his hands together and his voice pitched to a dismaying whine. “You promised you’d ask!” 

By the look on his face Ron had done nothing of the sort; he glanced to Andromeda. The witch was already getting up out of her armchair and wrapping herself in scarves. 

“Of course, Teddy,” she said, a little unsteady on her feet. “I’ll go with him, Ronald; keep him out of trouble.” 

“We’ll keep a plate warm for you,” said Molly, who needed to put the turkey in soon. She glanced around the room as they filed off into the Floo Network. She started levitating some of the used paper into the fire after they had all three vanished in swirling green flames; might as well clean up some of this rubbish while they were at it. 

“Molly, come have a rest,” Arthur called languidly from the third one of the long couches he had squeezed into the magically expanded room. “You’ve been on your feet all day. Someone get your mother a hot cocoa.” 

Molly almost protested, but when George obediently hopped up at the mention of cocoa she joined Arthur on the couch. He tossed a fuzzy Chudley Cannons blanket her way (Ron’s attempt to sway Elara’s Quidditch loyalties early) and she wrapped it around all the way up to her chin. 

Arthur grinned at her. “Having a good day, love?” 

Molly nodded. “The turkey’s mostly brined, Helen Granger promised to help me roast the potatoes, and Fred hasn’t got into the crackers yet at least.” Last year he had decided to open them all prematurely, and explosively, above people’s heads in bed circa four am on Christmas morning. 

George returned then with a cup of hot cocoa, keeping a weather eye on baby ghost Fred. The little poltergeist was hovering along beside him, straining to keep another cup of cocoa upright. 

George passed his mug to Molly, and Arthur gingerly took the one from baby ghost Fred, nervously seizing it in fear Fred might decide to chuck it at him last minute. He successfully took it with no mishaps. 

“Brilliant job!” George exclaimed, high-fiving his brother. “Excellent restraint. Now go smash something.” 

“YEE!!” Said baby ghost Fred, burbling off happily to find an appropriate item to destroy. 

“See? He’s getting better,” said George, grinning. Baby ghost Fred helped him in the shop now, gently shelving items and only wrecking the displays sometimes. 

The noise of shattering china came then from the kitchen; Molly’s hands flew to her ears. 

“Well, not too much better,” George admitted. “I’ll go clean that up.” 

Molly just laughed. “Don’t worry about it. We can get it later.” 

Arthur gasped in mock surprise. “You’re getting better, too!” 

“Oh, hush,” said Molly, hitting him lightly with a pillow, but she was smiling. She felt warm inside––warm and complete. 

She leaned back against the couch cushions just as Ginny cracked on the wireless to let Ron’s music through. She listened to the children still playing around the room with their cousins. In the kitchen she could hear her little ghost baby starting to sing boisterously along to Luna’s Christmas warbles. 

Molly caught Ginny’s eye and they smiled lazily at one another. Everything was good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well...that's that! Thank you so much to everyone who's read this far. I've really appreciated your lovely comments and I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. 
> 
> If you're interested, I have another one on the way––I struggled a lot with figuring out what Hermione and Draco were up to at any given point in this story, and their headspace, so I actually wrote a whole collection of scenes from Hermione's perspective before rewriting them from Molly's. I came up with a larger outline and I'm going to publish them as a separate work. It will go from Hermione and Draco at Hogwarts for an eighth year to a little past the trial. They'll be distinct enough works to read separately, and they don't really spoil each other. There's part of it up on my profile now. 
> 
> That one will be more of a romance (obviously) and Hermione is a little more angsty than Molly, who I've found is just not the most thoughtful person, but it will still be lighthearted. I wrote most of these Hermione/Draco sequences over late nights and lazy weekends, and as Eva Ibbotson said about her own romance novels, "I think I was really writing the kind of book I wanted to read myself when I had the flu." (https://wordwenches.typepad.com/word_wenches/2009/06/meet-eva-ibbotson.html) So, if you ever have the flu, and you find yourself wanting to see more of some of my versions of these characters...you know where to find me ;)


	36. I Didn't Know Where to Put This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George proposes to Angelina.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is set in April after the story ends but before the epilogue. Everybody finds out about baby ghost Fred being a poltergeist in like February, and I had this sequence written pretty early, but it just didn't really fit with the timeline at the end so I cut it for pacing reasons. It's really short, but I hope you enjoy!

George said he didn’t want to do anything for his birthday. He didn’t want a cake, he didn’t want presents; no sort of celebration. Instead, when April 1st dawned, he, Angelina, Arthur, and Molly packed quietly into the campervan. Ron and Ginny came too, and Bill without Fleur, and Percy without Audrey. They drove down to the little cemetery where Fred slept and piled out. 

It was a gray day, and the first brave flowers had already been destroyed by the frost. George took Molly’s arm in his, and they led the way to the grave, leaning on each other for support. 

They looked down at the grave. Molly wasn’t sure what she had been expecting, what sort of sign of his return as a baby ghost, but nothing seemed different at all. The dirt was still brown and fresh-looking, but it had sunk into the ground more since the last time they had come to visit. The sturdy little headstone was the same as ever, if a little more weatherbeaten. 

Molly laid down her pink carnations, which meant _‘I will never forget you,’_ and George laid down a bundle of heliotrope and honeysuckle, which stood for _‘undying love.’_ Then they stood arm in arm, looking down at the grave together. 

“I want to go next to him,” said George, breaking the silence. “I’ve decided.” 

“Oh, George…” Molly moaned under her breath, her heart arching. She squeezed his arm. 

Angelina slipped her hand through his other arm. “Got any room for me in there?” she ventured, her voice barely above a whisper. 

George smiled. “Yeah, but you’re going to have to marry me. I don’t think they’ll let you in otherwise.” 

She smiled up at him. “Okay.” 

He kissed her. 

Molly leaned over to look at the two of them in shock. “Did you just…?” 

George took his arm out of Molly’s to lay a finger to his lips, his eyes twinkling. He turned back to Angelina, who was resting her head on his shoulder now, and asked nonchalantly, “I was thinking June?” 

“Yeah.” Angelina bit back a smile. “I like June.” 

“Brilliant.” George held her close. 

Molly looked from George to the headstone, aghast. _“And on your brother’s grave!”_

George stuck his tongue out at her. “He always would’ve helped me propose.” 

“You!” Molly didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Merlin’s beard. My goodness. Well come on then, give the girl her ring already.” 

George shrugged apologetically. “Can’t,” he said to Angelina. “It was a bit spontaneous after all, I’m afraid.” 

“Oh thank goodness, that’s a relief.” Angelina rolled her eyes to the heavens. “I was afraid you were about to present me with some goblin-made monstrosity.” 

“No, no.” George laughed. “Want to go shopping later?” 

“Godric, yes. Can we go to Flemberton’s?” 

“Anything for you.” He kissed her on the forehead. “Er, well, I have got a budget.” 

Angelina grinned and hugged him. “Yeah, and I’ve got a savings account to raid.” 

Molly shook her head and laughed.


End file.
